Across the Frozen Wasteland
by Prince Fire and Music
Summary: Gerda, a lonely restauranteur, may just have found her chance at love with a handsome prince in cognito, Kai. But when he suddenly vanishes, she must journey to the Snow Queen's palace in the harsh North to save him with the help of the mysterious Grandmother Faelyn. A retelling mainly of The Snow Queen and Cinderella, but also several others (warning: contains lots of food).
1. Chapter 1

I never really knew my parents, even though we lived in the same house well into my childhood. Looking back on them now, it's amazing to see what an impact they had on my life in the most surprising and ironic way. Things could have been so different if they had genuinely cared about their children and tried to raise them as if they were people and not exotic pets.

But that's not who my parents were. They were rich, charming, sophisticated, and interesting. They didn't really need or want my sister and I; we were just around to complete the family unit. We were just extensions of their manicured lives.

Momma was pretty and foreign, with her big blue eyes and her pretty red curls. But she wasn't much else. Papa had met her when he was visiting the southern lands and fell captive to her beauty and wit. He took her back to our land after copious promises of extravagant wealth and a life in a high-up social sphere. Momma had been poor, and she wanted nothing more in the world than to be wealthy and affluent and looked up to, or so I heard from the servants. I never really interacted with her in person. Mostly I saw her when she was entertaining guests at our old mansion. That and sometimes at breakfast. She wore black a lot, which never seemed to fit her and occasionally navy, which never fit her either. Once, when I was alone in the nursery, I drew a picture of a gown especially designed for her. She looked at it and said "Gerdie that's very cute and all, but can you make it?"

"Make it?" I stuttered, haplessly.

"Yes, of course, dear. Can you acquire the fabric and measurements, cut all the pieces properly, and sew it together to create something _real_?"

"I-I… no."

"Then darling," she said with her pinched, little smile, "you must know that something like this couldn't possibly interest someone. It's just an _idea_ on a _page_. It's not going to make a profit. Why don't you learn something charming like medicine or trading etiquette? Your father would be absolutely _beside himself_ if he knew that you were going to be the first female merchant in Isdæll."

She chuckled at the joke and excused herself off to the gardens or her study.

I wasn't sure if I hated her or if I was merely annoyed by her. On retrospect I feel it was much closer to loathing than I would have liked to admit.

But I must have loved her a little bit, too, or I wouldn't have set out so passionately on learning how to make dresses, how to prove her wrong. How to make her stuff all of those ugly, belittling words up her pretty little smirk of a mouth.

I made my first dress when I was ten. One of Momma's friends had given me some silk fabric, I think because Momma had told them laughingly about me bringing her the drawing. I never knew if it was pity that provoked it or merely another cruel joke – I suppose I assumed the latter – but I was determined not to let her get the best of me. I stole scissors and strings and needles from anyone and everyone. I convinced Papa to buy me a sewing book for my birthday. It took me months and many bloodied, pricked fingers to sew the dress up. But I did in the end. Momma was out at a party that night. I stayed up until I couldn't keep my eyes shut waiting for her to come back.

She never did.

I cried for a long time after I heard the news. Cried for all the dismissal and the hate and the _wanting_. Wanting her to just notice I was even alive. Me, her own daughter. It seemed like hours before I finally up and wiped my tears away and never cried another one over her.

It was later that I found out she hadn't died because of a sudden cold – which I also learned never killed a soul – but rather by a jealous former lover, who was incensed that she could leave him for the man she was with now – who was not my father. He had waited outside and knifed her just as she was stepping out to get into the carriage. The royal battalion finally found him and had him publically executed.

I never knew how Papa reacted when he heard. It seemed like he didn't react at all, just went on living the same way he always did. Traveling practically every day of his life, bringing back pretty goods to "oo" and "ah" over before he sold them. Life went on just fine for Papa, it seemed.

I suppose that's an unfair judgment on my part. I barely knew my father either, perhaps even less than my mother. He was good-looking and pleasant, I recall, and charming in a much more shrewd and subdued way than Mother had been. He knew how to flatter and cajole, how to be silent so as to look mysterious, and how to ask the right questions to make you drop your superstitions and concerns and slap money into the palms of his hand. I always thought Papa was amiable, but I never thought he was honest.

When I was fifteen, Papa married a woman named Veda. Veda was clever and a widow with a daughter of her own a year younger than my older sister Laurel. Her face was stern and she didn't smile, but she didn't ridicule, either, like Momma did. She also knew how to dress, choosing fashionable whites and blacks that went with her dark brown hair and eyes, as well as the occasional use of placid yellows, rich blues, and pale salmons. She wasn't pretty in the way Momma was, but she was more composed and sophisticated. She brought an air of intelligence to the room and dry wit. She knew wine and cheese and the best and most fashionable woodwork and what styles would be popular and what books people were reading.

I never quite understood what made her marry Papa; it seemed she could have done a lot better. Perhaps she found it a shrewd choice; perhaps she thought he was going places. If she had, it was quite a struck of misfortune, for Papa died of a heart attack somewhere in the South when he was off on business.

So that left the four of us: Veda, Laurel, Penta, and me.

Laurel was older than me by about three years. She was very pretty and very tall, with wavy strawberry-blonde hair and her lovely blue-green eyes. We had never spent time together growing up. Laurel was a gifted athlete and pianist, and she was always at tennis lessons or studying music under Master so-and-so. Whatever she did, she was hailed at it.

Penta was similar. Though not overwhelmingly attractive, Penta had inherited her mother's sharp mind as well as a talent for dance and singing. She had also studied under highly sought-after dance teachers and vocal coaches, to great acclaim as well.

So it was no surprise that Penta and Laurel got along. Or perhaps it was a great surprise. I don't know, perhaps it wasn't either. Laurel would often play the piano while Penta sang, and with Laurel's looks and Penta's voice, they made a very appealing combination, which proved to be mutually beneficial instead of merely competitive. So they were always together, and I was alone.

I was not quite pretty. I suppose I was too young or too young looking to quite be pretty yet. My hair was an auburn color, and my eyes a pale green. There was nothing wrong with the way I looked, but next to Laurel, I just didn't have _it_, the spark, the mad flame of beauty. It was the same in all other respects, too. I sang well, but Penta's voice was throatier and trained. I played the piano passably, but I didn't have Laurel's graceful long fingers or her gusto. I danced when I felt like it, but Penta's long slender legs made her move like silk ribbons in a summer breeze. I felt ordinary, common.

I felt unnoticeable.

So I sewed and eventually picked up cooking.

Sewing wasn't a natural strength to me. It took me long hours in my room reading two or three books at a time, trying to figure out what they all made. It took jabbing my fingers 'til they became scabby, coarse little things and wanting to scream and burn every stitch of fabric I owned. It took Veda's criticism and difficult to please demeanor as well as her impeccable taste in clothing. Eventually I managed to do something with the hobby, and soon enough I was making dresses, _good_ dresses. Not the tacky dresses with too many frills and unseemly necklines and too much skin in the wrong places, but _classy_ dresses. The kind of dresses you wanted to dress in. The kind of dresses that made people feel desirable and soft.

I didn't discover cooking until after we lost the mansion.

I remember the day Veda sat us down very clearly. It was a grey day outside, in mid-autumn. The sun hadn't been out for days, and I felt restless with pent up energy. Veda called us three into the living room and bade us sit down. She was wearing an exquisite caramel colored dress with a small gold stud near the bosom – I remembered because it was far too nice of a gown to be wearing with no special occasion to celebrate.

I sat down in the blue velvet chair as Laurel and Penta sat on the gold sofa.

"Girls, I have rather unfortunate news for all of us." Veda stood where we could all see her with a letter in her hand. "It seems that my late husband, Laurel and Gerda's father," as if we didn't all know "has turned out to be… well… not quite the man I thought he was. I have a letter here in my hands that details some rather unfavorable actions on his part, such as some apparent embezzlement as well as dishonest representation of some of the goods he was selling."

Laurel's eyes widened and Veda moved to hand her the letter. She read it cautiously as Penta looked over her shoulder. "As such, it seems that we have racked up quite a considerable debt in repaying those cheated out of their money, and I'm afraid it's been such a sum that the royal treasury has decided to take possession of our home and some of our valuables and furniture to pay it off."

We all gasped, but I wasn't sure what startled us more: the loss of our home or the apathy in her voice.

"Well, it was either that or spend an appropriate time in prison as penance for our dear patriarch's sin," Veda replied frostily, dipping her body into a nearby seat like a swan descending onto water.

We all stared at her silently.

"The good thing is," Veda continued, "we don't have to sell _all_ our belongings. It seems that we can all keep several pieces of furniture, a couple of curtains, our jewelry, and our clothes. But things are going to be tight, ladies. We're going to have to share and be on our best behavior. I prepared a list of furniture I would like to take with me. Laurel, you and Gerda are going to have to share a dresser-"

"Oh, but _Stepmother-_"

"Don't 'oh, but stepmother' me, Laurel. Honestly, it isn't really like Gerda is going to be that much of a bother. She doesn't hardly use a dresser, let alone need it for much."

That stung, but it was true.

"Penta, I'm afraid you and I will have to share a dresser for the time being. It's unfavorable, but such is life." As always, Veda was brisk and unemotional with tragedy.

Penta nodded sagely.

"Are you all quite clear on what is going on? I will be giving out further instruction on what we will need to pack for the wagons and the carriages throughout this week. That is all I have to say; you are dismissed."

No one moved.

"Um, Stepmother?" I asked quietly.

"What is it, Gerda?"

"Um, where will we be moving to? That is, where will we live now?"

Veda looked at me for a few moments then looked down at the letter. "I'm afraid I don't know quite yet, Gerda. But tomorrow I am going to go into town to find an acceptable location to take up residence. You may all be assured that by the end of the week, you will be moving into someplace satisfactory. Now if that is all, you must excuse me for I have other business to attend to."

With that she stood up and swept calmly out of the room.

I suppose I had never been more amazed by my stepmother before. Her unnerving sense of calm, her amazing poise and eloquence, her confidence and her efficiency – she was almost more machine than human, almost too coordinated and undisturbed to be real.

I looked to Laurel and Penta, both still seated on the sofa. They looked more serious and intent than I had event seen them before. Finally, Penta got up.

"Well, what's done is done," Penta exclaimed in that soft voice of hers.

"Is that all you can say?" Laurel looked fierce. "This is my _home_! I've lived in this house since the day I was _born_! And now you and your mother are just _giving_ it _away_?"

Penta and I both stared at Laurel, stunned by her sudden vehemence.

"So you think Mother and I planned all this?" Penta's voice was ice cold.

Laurel didn't speak.

"If your father hadn't been such a lying, scheming cheat, Mother and I would be warm and content back at _our_ house, the house _I_ lived in since I was born and had to give up to live _here_." Penta's cheeks glowed with anger I had never before thought her capable of.

Laurel cast her gaze downwards. "I'm sorry, Penta. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't. Now excuse me, I'll be in my room, packing my belongings."

Penta stood up stiffly and walked out one of the side doors into the hallway.

Laurel and I sat still, a rare moment between us. The clock ticked on emotionlessly; time stopped for no man and no tragedy. I looked at Laurel. Her face was pale, but composed and lovely. She pulled her hair back with a sigh.

"You know… I don't even know why I'm so upset. I'm not really going to miss this place and its large, empty rooms and the cupboards and cupboards of fine china that no one uses. And the rugs. The rugs are awful. So gaudy and so…"

It was then that I realized she was crying.

"And… and the worst part of it is that it never even felt like home. With all the lessons and Papa being gone all the time and Mama, well, Mama being what she _was_… it… it just never was home. But I _wanted_ it to be home so bad! But… it _wasn't_! It was just this _place_! And I never wanted to admit that I was just as homeless as those beggars on the street but-" Her voice broke out into sobs.

I watched her from the chair, unable to move or comfort her. She was just this fragile, sweet things, all bottled up inside, all alone and afraid. And I felt so powerless, so pathetic. I felt like I ought to just shrivel up and die.

She stood up abruptly and ran out of the room.

I felt my own tears start to prick and then sear my eyes. Laurel was right: it had never been home. It had just been pretty grey stone walls and a pretty garden and pretty dark brown wood floors and walls and ceilings and pretty glass chandeliers and pretty (or in Laurel's opinion, ugly) red and gold carpet and pretty crystal glasses…

It had been pretty everything, but not home. Just some _place_, some _pretty place._ And now that we were leaving, the illusion was over. We would miss what we had never had, but wanted, what we had seen other children in the streets have. We would miss the lies we told ourselves to feel better. But we wouldn't miss our parents and the place they brought us up, because that's all it was. A place – without memories, without security, without love.

When we moved out the next week, it felt like we had already forgotten it.

**Author's note: The biggest thing that bothers me about this chapter is her mentioning cooking when that won't come in for several chapters - however it's hard to take it out because the mention of cooking helps the paragraphs transition smoother than if I decided to completely cut it out. I also worry about setting the chapter up in wealth when Gerda A) doesn't know how to read (she just looks at the pictures in the books) and B) the whole rest of the story Gerda is lower class (middle-class at best). It just feels a bit weird. Some questions for you: what do you make of Gerda from the first chapter? What characters stand out to you? What kind of vibe/tone/feel do you expect for the rest of the story?**


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody expected Veda to pick what she did. I don't know what Laurel and Penta expected her to pick, but I was at least assuming a sort of quaint, rustic cottage near town. I thought with the amount of stuff she sold off (much more than Laurel and I had anticipated), she would at least be able to afford something decent.

What we got was not a house but a rundown store.

The woman who had owned it before had used it as a dress shop for antique styles but had subsequently fallen sick. She relocated across the street to an apartment with her only son and his wife and, sensing her days as shop-owner were numbered, decided to give up on the trade altogether and spend more time with her family. Consequently, in her old age, she had gotten less and less capable of the external upkeep of the shop and as such it looked every bit as old as she was.

To Veda's credit, the store, being somewhat sizeable itself, had a somewhat sizeable upper apartment connected by a simple but elegant flight of stairs.

"This store will certainly need a lot of hours of good, hard cleaning and patching up. But once that's accomplished, I have a feeling you three will find it quite satisfactory." Veda set a bag down on the mahogany shop counter and swiped a line of dust off with her gloved finger. "Thick, but not impenetrable."

I looked around at the graying walls and floor and the flood of light pouring through the empty storefront. The woodwork was lovely, but some of the shelving was decayed or damaged and several floorboards were loose, not to mention the crack in one of the window panels. _This had once held antique dresses and fabrics?_ I thought.

"But Mother, what on earth are we going to sell?" Penta's eyes were bulging, and no amount of decorum could disguise her horror.

"Penta, I have no idea, darling. Why don't we helped get our belongings up the stairs, and then talk about it over a cup of tea?" Veda glanced around approvingly and swept off in the direction of the door.

Laurel burst out into a fit of laughter.

Veda turned sharply and stared at her. "Laurel, whatever is so funny?" Her voice was stiff like steel.

"_Everything_ is so funny, the whole _thing_, and the _store_-"

"Laurel dear," Veda began again with more frost. "If you keep carrying on like that, these nice men who've come to help us will forget your pretty face and think you are stark raving mad. Now why don't you remember you're a lady with some amount of pride to hold onto and quiet yourself before I'm forced to _apologize_ for you."

Laurel's laughter trickled away into an uncontrollable smile, which she kept trying to stifle

"Now then, isn't that much more pleasant? Come along girls, let's stop pretending we're dolls and start pretending we're people with an apartment to move into."

It took several hours the first day to help get things in and several hours the next day when the second round of men came with our belongings. Veda watched the men carrying the furniture like a hawk to make sure they didn't bang the walls as they carried it up the ceilings, meticulously counting each and every item until she was certain they were all accounted for.

The apartment was predictably drab and an odd mixture of too spacious and too cramped. The parlor was almost extravagantly expansive, while the two powder rooms felt more like closets. Most of our personal items we managed to take, though there was little else but clothes, jewelry, blankets, and a couple of books. Our lack of fond memorabilia seemed oddly apparent.

Veda's odd insistence on taking a few rugs and curtains became remarkably agreeable, as by merely existing they added some semblance of warmth and livability, covering the wood that seemed to age beyond life itself. However, the wood that was not concealed was swept furiously until it seemed to at last rejuvenate into something less hopelessly depressing.

In the meanwhile, as we had gone about this dull and extensive process, we had taken care to also establish our bedrooms to provide some emotional comfort and gone over necessary boundaries to keep arguments and hysteria at a minimum. Though, with Veda and Penta being more placid than a sleeping cat, it was hard to believe there had ever been arguing.

"Now then," Veda began, "I think it is time that we all discussed what our lives are going to become and more importantly what we are going to sell in order to make a profit."

After days of cleaning up and whispered speculation, Veda had finally gathered us into the parlor to sit down (with tea of course) and "comfortably and calmly" discuss the prospects of our lives. We were all tired and the excitement of opening a shop had subsided into the weary dread of endless upkeep – that and the fact that all possible prospects required extensive learning and energy, which no one was presently feeling up to.

"Has anyone thought anymore about a potential and plausible trade?" Veda folded her hands in her lap with the frank sensibility of a schoolteacher introducing a new topic.

Our fatigue showed in our silent reaction.

"No one has come up with anything?" Veda raised an eyebrow humorlessly.

Again, no one said a word.

"So I have three intelligent, sophisticated daughters and not _one_ has come up with so much as a possibility?"

_Brrrr_, was it colder in here.

Veda's gaze turned to me. "Gerda, dear, I'm sure you've at least thought of _something_. Tell me, child."

I averted my gaze, but Veda's piercing stare forced my mouth to produce words on its own. "Well, Stepmother, I mean, that is to say, perhaps, I mean, wouldn't it be possible to perhaps…"

Veda's glare looked thoroughly un-amused by all the fumbling.

"…perhaps just continue selling the old antique dresses?"

Veda rolled her eyes and let out a breath like an agitated horse. "_Really_, Gerda, I thought I said to think about ideas that _weren't_ tasteless and unprofitable. That grandmother was due for bankruptcy at the rate her sales were going, _honestly_. Antique dresses, my word. Since when did it become fashionable to dress up like people who were already _dead!_ Absolutely _morbid._"

I wasn't quite sure I agreed with her, but no one argued when Veda talked style.

"No, that is absolutely out of the question. I wouldn't let any daughter of mine take so much as one step out of this house in something like that. What about a general store?"

No comments.

Veda took a sip from the teacup she was holding and placed it stiffly on the saucer on the coffee table, then smoothed her hair tightly wound in a bun to soothe her impatience. "Girls, really. You cannot expect me to do everything for you all. Laurel, you are all of eighteen years old. That is too old to be as empty as Church on a Monday. You must be able to come up with _something_. What about the ideas I mentioned earlier concerning the bakery or the dress shop? What of the general store?"

"You'll pardon me, Stepmother," Laurel said finally, Veda's criticisms finally beginning to wear on her, "but I don't think a general store would be a good idea at all."

"And why is that?" Veda said taking the teacup again, hypocritically miffed at the rejection of her own idea.

"Because none of us know anything about running a general store and finding the supplies, and I don't think there'd be a whole lot of books to teach us. It'd be much better to go with an individualized trade."

Veda stopped mid-sip and stared vacantly out at nowhere for a minute, then sat her cup down on the saucer again. "Well, Laurel, I suppose you've rather won this round. You bring up a valid point. I'm sure, however, that we would be able to find assistance, but at what cost and with what mistakes? No, certainly, it would be easier to focus on one thing. But what?"

"Perhaps we should try our hand at dressmaking, Mother?" Penta said gently. "Gerda has been doing it for years."

"Gerda's dresses are hardly sellable, Penta."

"The _point_ is," Penta replied more rigidly, "that Gerda has _already_ learned that skill. So even if she needed to improve, at least she would have the basics down."

"Point well taken, Penta," Veda said with less edge. Penta smiled.

"Why not try our hand at a bar? There are plenty of older men around here; I'm sure we'd get a business. Besides, how hard can it be to brew ale and mead and beer?"

Veda stiffened like a plank. "Laurel, dear, you can't possibly be serious. A bar is nothing more than a low-class brothel with drinks on the side. Really, if you had any self-respect. Do you have any idea what men would view you as?"

"Why not a restaurant?" I added excitedly. "We could sell higher-class food and perhaps attract a less rowdy crowd?"

Veda mused over the idea.

"Or why not a bakery to start out with? Just a few simple recipes, breads. It could have the _feeling_ of a general store, with the family environment, but it could be just baked good, and perhaps even just one keg of ale, for the men to enjoy while their wives found things for supper." Laurel's eyes glowed as though she were on the trail of buried treasure.

Veda turned her attention to her and looked at her wordlessly, for a few moments. "That's not a bad idea, but it would take some time. Perhaps we could combine that with Penta's suggestion of the dresses. I agree that with a bit of time and some… supervision, Gerda might be able to make profitable dresses about the same time that we three learn how to bake something edible."

We all nodded in agreement.

Veda smiled slowly. "Well, then. That's not such a bad idea after all. But we'll all have to get books and read them swiftly and sufficiently. We have no time to dally about the house daydreaming. The sooner we educate ourselves, the sooner we can begin securing our futures."

We nodded again.

"Well then, ladies, I believe it's time to rinse our dishes and make haste in the pursuit of knowledge." Veda rose elegantly from her chair and picked up her teacup and saucer. The rest of us followed suite.

For the next couple days we explored around town to seek out who owned books and recipes and what the competition looked like. The sole bakery in town was nice, but ultimately dispensable with uninspired chocolate cakes and sweet buns and breads so basic you forgot they had a taste. The atmosphere was unmistakable, however, with its cheery red-checkered tablecloths, ubiquitous quaint baskets full of bread, and pretty cherry woodwork that no barbarian would feel at home in.

The bookshop owner was seedier than we expected and though Veda managed to guilt him into lowering some of his prices, his books were still uncomfortably expensive. To top it off, to my utter chagrin, the book I purchased to help with the dresses turned out to be written partially in some language with an alphabet I had never even seen before. What possessed someone to write, let alone, sell a bilingual book – especially when the two languages weren't even in the same area – was beyond me. Worst of all, the parts in foreign text weren't translations, but entirely different sections themselves and there weren't sufficient pictures in either section to fully understand what to do – especially since I did not know how to read my own language, let alone another.

Veda evidently wasn't satisfied either, because she continued to investigate around for more recipe books and more old mothers willing to share their recipes. Despite her eternal business-like demeanor, she seemed successful in acquiring both useful information and potential contacts. Unfortunately for all of us, the town we lived in was not an extremely populous one, nor did it promise to be. It was located off and behind the castle, directly opposite of the booming castle town to the front and sides. There were paved roads and some quaint artistic touches in pathways, lanterns, and architectural flourishes, but nothing that demanded attention. The people who had moved there seemed to be somewhat reclusive and content in their near anonymity. We were lucky to have people so much as look inside the windows as they passed.

So, as one can imagine, it was quite a surprise when we heard an unexpected visitor knocking on the store door.

We all came about halfway down the staircase to see who it was, while Veda made her way to the door wrapped in a wintertime shawl. The visitor was older, it seemed, and might possibly have lost his way. It was difficult to see from the shadows.

Veda unlocked the door and opened it slightly. "I'm sorry, we're not open for business yet, or were you perhaps looking for the previous owner?"

We heard an old, cheery cackle. "No, dearie, I _am_ the previous owner. I thought I'd come over and see how you all were doing. I heard you bought this store under some unfortunate circumstances and was hoping you were settling in well despite all that. May I come in? I promise I don't bite." She cackled again at this. "I also brought some fresh bread and jam."

"Oh," Veda said softly, before curtsying respectfully. "Please do, Mrs. Asheputell"

"Oh, just call me Grandmother Fælyn. Everybody does, even my mother." Another cackle.

"Ah, yes. The girls will be very glad to meet you." Veda opened the door and gestured the woman in. The old woman appeared all bundled up in several bright layers of clothing and had a mass of a bun peeking out from under her hat.

"You must forgive my imprudence for not recognizing you, Mrs. Asheputell, but I don't recall seeing you at the financial transactions," Veda said, taking the woman's coat and placing it on the coat rack before walking towards the stairs.

"Oh, that's alright," the woman responded. "My son whom I'm living with was the one who dealt with all that business. He's bossy, but he's a nice boy."

Bereft of her hat and coat, the old woman looked very much like how her voice sounded, a bit plump, but cheery, with a raucous mass of steel grey hair, singed with strands of white and brown. She wore a bright green dress covered by an apron. Her eyes, as I could see as she drew near to us, were such a dark brown they were almost black.

"Well, it doesn't look too different from when I left it does it?" The strange cackle was back again in her voice, like fire softly devouring wood on a cold night.

"It will," Veda replied, or perhaps insisted, then looked up at us on the stairs. "These are my three daughters, though Penta is the only one who I bore. The other two were from my second husband's first wife. Laurel is the one with the light hair, Gerda is the one peeping out from behind her, and Penta has hair like mine.

We all curtsied jointly after the awkward introduction.

"Girls, who you mind scurrying up the steps and preparing a warm cup of tea for our visitor. You do have time for tea, don't you Mrs. Asheputell?"

"Oh, _do_ call me Grandmother Fælyn, dearie. Mrs. Asheputell sound so… well, awful, to put it bluntly."

Veda nodded, but let an expression of agitation escape her eyes briefly.

We turned and hurried up the stairs and into the small kitchen area where Penta began brewing the tea, and Laurel and I carried out the cups and saucers along with the sugar and cream. Mrs. Asheputell, or Grandmother Fælyn, as she was apparently going to be known as, took a seat with unexpected grace in one of the plush leather chairs. Penta came in shortly with the steaming pot and set it down on the table after pouring it slowly into each cup.

"Why, Veda, dearie, I just _love_ what you've done with the place! What beautiful furniture! Have you decided what you're going to sell yet? I would be more than willing to be of service if you needed me, though I don't suppose there's much more I could do with these old bones of mine."

Veda shifted position on the couch and a shrewd little smile began to nip at her lips. "Well, we were considering perhaps selling dresses and baked goods. My youngest, Gerda here, has been working on sewing dresses for several years now, and I like to see if we couldn't bring that to some profit."

Grandmother Fælyn breathed in sharply and beamed at me. "_My_, aren't you _clever_?"

I blushed immediately and turned away, totally uncertain of how to handle the compliment.

"I thought the rest of us could learn to bake instead," Veda continued. "You can always eat the leftovers, and the town could always use another bakery to bring business in from all around. Bakeries attract the most astonishing people, you know."

I didn't know if this was true or if she was just making stuff up now.

Grandmother Fælyn smiled a slow, cryptic smile as she sipped her tea.

"You wouldn't happen to know someone who has knowledge in these sorts of things, would you, Grandmother Fælyn?" The name sounded so discordant coming from her mouth.

The old woman sat down her teacup and smiled at me. "I might know some people, and I have some nice books myself that might be useful. Perhaps you will come down to visit me, Gerda, and show me one of you dresses and I could send you back with the books."

I smiled back at her. "I'd like that very much."

**Author's note: The store introduced this chapter is where Gerda is going to live for the rest of the story, which I think reinforces some of my concerns voiced in the previous chapter. I also wonder if Veda and the mother should merge, and the father perhaps be some sort of idealistic farmer who dies in an accident and the mother decides she doesn't want to deal with the farm so she sells it for the store. Also, Penta and Laurel, while different, hardly play exciting parts either, and I was wondering if they couldn't just be merged into an older sister or brother, even. ****Gerda's mother is such a striking character, though, and her frivolousness and high-scoeity snobbishness really creates a kind of deep-seated anger, I feel. What do you guys think? Should I keep the wealthy beginning? Questions for you on this chapter: first impressions of Grandmother Fælyn? How has your impression of Veda changed? How do you think the store sets up the story? Do you feel bothered by the lack of immediate tension?**


	3. Chapter 3

The next week I paid a visit to Grandmother Fælyn. Her home was situated across the store a few houses to the right. I found the path leading from the cobblestone road into her garden, which was surprisingly uneventful, containing a maple tree of all things and a few bushes. I wondered if she didn't have the time to garden. I pushed open the picket gate and made my way up to her door. Her house was an old grey stone house with a round door of lovely dark wood and a silvery looking door handle. It was rustic looking, but almost arcane at the same time, the sort of house you looked at from the street and wondered who lived there and why. Except I knew who lived there and why.

It was amazing how knowing could kill imagination.

I knocked on the door a few times. I had worn an iris-blue dress with bits of white lacing on it. It didn't do much for my features, but it was pretty enough to draw attention to itself regardless. Veda had also insisted I bring a basket with some fresh bread, jam, and a few nice bath salts in it – for extra incentive if the old woman didn't feel up to giving her books. I had been uncomfortable with it, but ultimately had decided not to cause a fight and go against Veda. That was just the way she was, I supposed: businesslike, calculating, and opportunistic. Perhaps that's really the only reason she married Papa? If so, what an awful misstep that was.

The crisp air was beginning to nip ever so slightly at my ears when the old woman finally came. "Oh, my, if it isn't dear Gerda, come to see me!" She smiled pleasantly to reveal crooked teeth.

She looked even more old and helpless today than she had even last week. A dark red shawl was wrapped around her neck, and her hair hung down her back in a loose braid. Her clothes were somewhat frayed and layered in oranges and yellows, much like the maple tree that was starting to turn.

I shuffled in my position. "I, I'm sorry if I've come at a bad time, but I thought I would pay you a visit and see… um, see if…"

"Why, do come in, dearie." The old woman smiled and beckoned me inwards. Her house smelled sweet and cinnamon-y. "I've just finished my maple-apple upside down cake; would you like to try a piece?"

I breathed in again and absorbed the marvelous fragrance. It had been a while since I had smelled something wonderful. I felt my mouth begin to salivate. "Oh, no, thank you, ma'am. Really, I shouldn't." But I sure _wanted_ to.

"Nonsense," Grandmother Fælyn said with a queer sense of amusement as if it really had been nonsense. She walked into the kitchen, and I followed her. The old woman seemed to draw inspiration from nature and her doors and the walls of her house all seemed to have beautiful woodworking with leaf and vine designs as well as the charming accents of brown, orange, gold, and red everywhere.

"Your house is lovely," I said, breathlessly.

"Why thank you, dear. I love the autumn season. My son says I've got so much autumn colors and themes in here I'd make the Autumn Witch jealous, herself." She chuckled at this.

"The Autumn Witch?" I asked, shyly.

Grandmother Fælyn turned and smiled slowly. "Don't you know the Autumn Witch? She's the sister of the Snow Queen."

"Who's the Snow Queen, ma'am?" I blurted out, before remembering I should have just smiled and nodded.

Grandmother Fælyn laughed. "My, what a funny child you are! I thought every child grew up with that story!" She cut a slice of the cake, set it on a plate, and pushed it towards me. "Here, try this. Just to humor an old woman."

I acquiesced tentatively and took the fork she offered before placing a piece in my mouth. It was delicious, of course. The maple syrup had soaked into the apple cake, which had been spiced with cinnamon, creating a rich, moist flavor perfect for a fall day. I glanced up to see the thoroughly satisfied expressed on Grandmother Fælyn's face. "This is delicious," I said, taking another piece.

"I'm guessing it's a lot better than anything you've bought out at the town restaurants."

"Yes, ma'am, it certainly is!"

I finished the rest of a cake with a glass of the milk she kept cooled in the icebox. "Where is your son, ma'am?"

"Oh, at work I'm sure." She sighed, rinsing the plate off with some of the water she kept near the raised basin in the center of her cabinetry. Her cabinets were all cherry and gave off a warm, sentimental glow. The table I sat at had a white vase with a bouquet of chrysanthemums in a variety of colors. Everywhere I looked things seemed to carry a sweet, nurturing air.

"Will he be home soon?" I grimaced, angry at the awkwardness of my own impulsive questioning.

She pulled out a towel from the drawer and wiped the towel clean before laying the dish in a basket. "No, I'm afraid he always gets home rather late. His wife always works late, too. Poor pretty thing."

I wanted to ask more, about whether or not they had children or what did they, but I felt too afraid that my curiosity would become offensive, so I stayed silent.

"The books you're looking for are upstairs in the attic. Would you like to see them now?"

"Yes, ma'am – um, that is, if you don't mind." I felt so bad for coming for the books now, especially with how lonely the old woman must have been.

"Gerda, really. All this 'yes, ma'am,' 'no ma'am,' 'oh, thank you, ma'am' is starting to get a bit ridiculous. Do call me Grandmother Fælyn or even Grandmother if that's too much of a mouthful." The old woman's smile was gentler now and suddenly younger, the cackle and rasp of her voice suddenly replaced with warm milk.

"Yes, Grandmother Fælyn," I said, to which she smiled approvingly. We walked into the small parlor where a few wooden chairs rested. The walls had a design of green and gold leaves etching laced around the middle like a garland.

"Who painted that? It's lovely," I said, momentarily forgetting my resolve not to ask more questions.

"Oh, that pretty little etching on the wall? My son did that. He likes to paint on occasion."

She led me up the dark wood stairs that spiraled into the attic. A wall cut through half of it, accompanied by a door, while the other half of it remained open. A small bed lay up against the wall, a few feet by the window. An old bookshelf stood at the opposing wall, and in the middle were two chairs and a beautiful, hand carved spinning wheel.

"Oh, what a pretty spinning wheel!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, I used it to make yarn out of it and turn that into cloth. I never could get past that. But I did manage to save all the best clothes in case I ever did learn how to make some pretty out of them, not just some silly scarf or hat. This is where I sleep. My son and his wife sleep in the room there closed off by a wall."

"Isn't it cold," I asked, "sleeping by the window?"

Grandmother Fælyn laughed mildly, "Oh, I don't mind. Just sleep with extra blankets is all." She turned to pick a few books then dusted them off crudely with her hand. "Let's see here… 'The Child's Book of Baking,' 'What My Mother Never Told Me' – if you skip all the vehement passages about picking a good husband and birth fathers it's really got some nice beginning recipes. And here's "The Artist and the Dressmaker" for you. It's about this dressmaker who marries an artist and how he helps her to make more artistic and elegant designs. She gives some wonderful design ideas."

I looked at the book and skimmed through the pages, noting the heavy reliance on words and not pictures. I would have to get someone else to read it for me.

"I know your stepmother is the one who's asking to borrow books, but is there anything you'd like to read perchance? I'd be more than willing to lend you something."

I was about to refuse when she gasped and turned around abruptly to snatch a book. "Ah! I have just the thing! I got a book of fairy stories, as they call them, a number of years ago. The one about the Snow Queen is in there. Would you like to read it?"

She handed me a book lovelier than anything she had shown me in her house previously. The binding was trimmed in gleaming gold and the cover was a mixture of beautiful gold ink on a deep blue background where delicate swirls of pink, red, and white were embroidered, looking something like flowers, but no flowers I had ever seen. A man and a woman were featured, though they both wore beautiful green clothes and had butterfly wings of many different colors. I felt my eyes bulge out of my socket. She turned some of the pages and every so often there were wonderful illustrations of men and women dancing, a glass coffin with a woman inside, a floating castle in the sky, and many other wonderful things.

The problem was with all those words.

I smiled sadly at it and shook my head. "Thank you, Grandmother Fælyn, but I really can't accept it."

She stopped smiling and looked at me sternly for a minute. "Why ever not?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again: "you see… I never learned to read."

Her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded. "Oh. I see."

We both stood there together in a moment of silence.

"How are you going to read the other book I gave you, then?" She finally asked.

I blushed and looked down. "Well, I was hoping my stepmother would help me with it."

She nodded, and we both continued to stand there quietly.

"You know, Gerda, why don't you just come back here, and _I'll_ read it to you? I mean, if you're not too uncomfortable with the idea."

"Really?" I said, feeling my face light up.

"Yes, really. I could always use some company, and you could use some help reading. Why not do it together? I'm sure your stepmother wouldn't mind; she's got lots of other things she's got to worry about."

I stood quietly for a few minutes, feeling like a windowsill quivering with sunlight. "Oh… that would be… that would be very lovely. Oh, if you're quite certain that you wouldn't mind; I don't mean to be a bother.

She smiled again, slowly, though her eyes twinkled with sadness. "No, of course not. I've always wanted a grandchild of my own to read to. Perhaps you could play the part for me for a little bit?" Desolation seemed to surface on her face fleetingly, then was swallowed suddenly in the sea of her other expressions.

"I… I haven't really had a Grandmother before, so I'm not quite sure I would be able to play a very convincing granddaughter."

She laughed, less of a cackle and more naturally now. "I'm sure you'll do fine. Now, run along dearie. Your stepmother is expecting you. Shall we meet next week at this same time?"

I nodded and turned down the stairs to leave.

We met a week later, in the late morning. I arrived in less pretentious wear, while her attire seemed less raggedy and tired looking. We sat together upstairs in the chair with a blanket to embroider into, as Grandmother Fælyn read over the instructions, and we both made attempts to interpret them.

"I suppose one reason I've never had much patience for embroidering is because I've had even less patience for people who try to tell you how to do it." Her mouth soured as she undid her stitching to start over again.

I laughed. "Thank you for doing this with me, Grandmother. It's nice to have someone faltering along with you to make you feel less foolish."

"It's nice to have somebody with you in general," she replied.

We both smiled and continued stitching.

After a while, I finally started getting the hang of some of the basic stitches. "Look Grandmother! I think I'm starting to understand!"

Grandmother Fælyn looked over at my work and then to the book and nodded approvingly. "I think you have, indeed. Perhaps you won't mind if I took a break then? My poor old fingers are starting to get cross with me from poking them too much."

"No, not at all, that's fine."

Grandmother Fælyn set down her needlework and stretched and stood up from her chair. "I'll make us some tea and cookies for a snack."

"Oh, Grandmother, you needn't go through all that work on my account." I stopped sewing and looked up at her with a frown.

"Nonsense, child. Cooking is one of my favorite past-times. You ought to learn how to bake, too."

I shrugged the idea off. "That's Laurel and my stepfamily's domain, I guess."

"And how is that going for them?"

I laughed. "Oh, not very well. Penta's creations are hardly flavorful and Laurel has about burnt down the store twice." I immediately regretted saying that.

"Oh, my," Grandmother Fælyn replied slowly. "I hope she does not succeed. That certainly is a lovely store. I do miss it."

"I'm sure Veda and Penta would never let it get to that point," I replied hastily.

"One can only hope." Then, after a pause: "I'll be back in just a minute after I put the cookies in the oven."

I nodded and continued sewing until she returned a half an hour later, still wiping her hands on her apron from the mixture. "Now, that will take about an hour to bake, so remind me to look at the clock at about… fourteen forty-five."

"Yes, Grandmother."

"In the meantime, I thought you might like to listen to a story from the fairy book. That is, if you're not too busy trying to concentrate on your sewing."

I drew my breath in giddily. "Oh, no, I'm sure I could pay attention to both!"

"My, my," she said, smiling, "I hardly know which one to begin."

The sunlight began to stream through the window, making little gold waves on the floor.

"I know," she said, watching the patterns swim and shimmer together. "I'll tell the story about the girl who could spin hay into gold."

"She could do _what_?" I said, then winced in pain as I stabbed myself accidentally with the needle.

"Well, you see. Once upon a time, a miller fell in love with a beautiful fairy. You see, one day he was out in the woods chopping wood because before he was a miller, he was a woodsman…"

She proceeded to tell me, at length, the story of how this man and his fairy bride met and fell in love. The fairy then gave birth to a beautiful child who had hair the color of spun gold and the unusual power to spin gold herself.

"Arielle was intent not to exploit her daughter's gift or to let others find out about it, lest they lead her down the road of destruction. But unfortunately, Arielle had spent too much time out of the fairy woods – that's where they lived you know – and she began to get weaker and weaker, until one day she died. Her husband and daughter were devastated of course"

I nodded, and thought of my own mother? Should I miss her right now? The fact of the matter was that I didn't.

"The husband had to become a miller instead of being a woodsman, even though he really liked chopping down trees."

I laughed at the absurdity. It was a silly tale after all.

"One day the daughter wanted to make a shawl to keep her shoulders warm in the coming winter, but she had no more wool left to do so. Instead, she decided that she would take some of the animals' straw, but as she began to spin in through the spinning wheel it turned into spun gold!"

I smiled to myself. What could a miller's daughter possibly do with spun gold?

Grandmother Fælyn continued to read in her rapt, soothing voice. There was something about the way she talked, the strange blend of honey, grain, wind, and sea salt in her voice – all at once brittle and raspy and warm and milky. It was like a fresh biscuit out of the oven, gently caressed with butter, steaming and soft. It was like a place you went to when the sky was dark and you wanted to be safe.

It was like home in the strangest, most foreign way.

Word finally got out, Grandmother Fælyn explained, about the girl and her unusual powers and a lonely king heard. He was very quiet and serious and had been a very sweet boy when he was born, but nobody had ever explained to him how to run a kingdom, let alone keep up with his financial affairs. Many of the treasurers of the court embezzled money from him, and he felt terribly betrayed. So when he came to the miller's house on a horse, he was desperate for a miracle.

"When King Leonis saw the girl, he became infatuated with her and thought that he could love her and she, him, but he was sacred. He decreed that she spin his giant storage room of hay into gold by morning or, if she was not who she said she was, he'd put her to death."

The old woman continued on, saying an imp-like man had helped her when she had gotten to nervous to continue spinning the hay into gold, but at the cost of her first born son. When he finally finished spinning all the hay in the room, he disappeared just as the king was opening the door. Seeing that she was indeed who she said she was, the king was overjoyed and they were married. However, when her first-born son was finally born, the time came at last for the imp to collect him. The queen was devastated, not to mention terrified at what the King would think, and begged and pleaded with the imp, who finally relented and told her that if she could guess his name he would not take the baby. She sent out a spy who discovered his name in secret and returned to tell her the news. When the imp returned and the queen finally guessed it, he grew so angry that he disappeared forever and was never heard of again.

"The story," Grandmother Fælyn explained, "is about trust. Are you willing to trust someone even if they hurt you?"

I thought pensively as I stitched the thread to and fro. "I don't know, Grandmother. I suppose I've never really needed to trust anyone."

She placed the book in her lap gently. "Trusting is very hard, and people break your trust."

"Why did the imp-man want the baby, Grandmother?" I asked. "Such an odd request."

She shrugged. "I suppose he was lonely. He was always out in the forest with no human interaction."

"Why was he so angry at the queen at the end? Was it because she cheated in learning his real name?"

Grandmother Fælyn shrugged again and got out of the chair to place the book on the shelf. "Who knows? It's only a story, besides. Perhaps the writers just needed a villain."

"Poor little imp-man," I said softly. "I bet he trusted the queen… even though he wanted her baby, he still tried to be honest in how he got it. He did all that work for her, just to be cheated out of what he really wanted… to feel loved and not alone, to have something to care for."

The old woman was suddenly very quiet. Then she moved to the door carefully. "The cookies should be done soon, Gerda. Why don't you take a few home with you for your family? You could finish your embroidery the next time you come."

I got out of my seat to follow her. "Grandmother, are you not feeling alright?"

She laughed softly with her back turned. "Oh, I'm afraid that old story has quite worn me out. But let's have another one the next time you come back here."

I smiled to myself. I would certainly look forward to it.

**Some pronunciation tips for you. Several of the names are based on the Danish language, since it is a retelling of Andersen's The Snow Queen. The country they live in, Isdæll is pronounced EES-daytl, Gerda Væl is pronounced GEHR-da (not Gerr-da) VAYL, Kay is pronounced (KEYE – like, rhymes with eye), Fælyn is what it looks like (Fay-LIN) – a shout out to my friend Faylinn Norse :D. Speaking of Danish, I'm going to shamelessly advertise two of my friend's fanfics, Clar the Pirate's "Andersen Sanders" and Captain Fantastic's "The Piper" which are too particularly nice stories out there set in an AU Denmark.**

**Now, concerning the story:**

**Firstly a couple people mentioned that Gerda can read – I must have mislead you somewhere. It will be confirmed again in this chapter that she **_**can't**_** read, which is one of the reasons I was wondering if she shouldn't just be born into poverty from the get-go, since it'd be highly unlikely for girls Laurel and Gerda's age not to be educated by their parents – I knew this, but considered it her parents' form of neglect, although in that day in age the children's education reflected upon their parents. But I think it was mentioned that she got a book in the first chapter – I was going for a picture book, but obviously that wasn't expressed.**

**Secondly, my problems in general with this chapter: it's kind of gushy and over-sentimental, and I feel like the descriptions are flowery and not necessarily effective. The dialogue occasionally comes off as being hammy to me, too, though. Not too sure how I feel about the story-telling elements, either. Gerda seems to over-react a lot too with being über excited all the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

Veda was very content with the situation with Grandmother and, true to my account, was eagerly going through the cooking books to typically less than desired results. However, the three of them were still getting along well enough on the smidge of fortune they had left, while I was off at Grandmother's working on embroidery and listening to her read fairy tales. Veda didn't mind my absence in the slightest and was more than encouraging about my time away from the house.

The woman was all business all the time. I knew she didn't try to deliberately hurt people, but with her one-track mind, how could she not? In any case, I had almost wished that Veda would miss me a bit when I left. But to her, it was just a matter of efficiency.

On one particularly cold winter's day, I made my way over to Grandmother's house for such a purpose. The wind was gaily blowing the lacey, white snowflakes all about in giddy spirals and swirls. The roofs of the houses and buildings were all covered and drifts and piles lined the frosted roads. I wore heavy boots that day and several pairs of clothes as well as an enormous rainbow colored scarf wrapped multiple times around my neck, face, and head. I felt like something that belonged in the circus.

I knocked a couple of times before she let me in at last into the sumptuous warmth of her house. Today she had made chocolate gingerbread men, which were warm, exotically spicy, and richly sweet all at once. Served along side it was a glass of vanilla boiled custard with a dash of cinnamon in it, thick and milky and delicious, but I couldn't help wondering what the woman ever made for her meals.

I had moved on from basic embroidery tips to learn to sew multiple layers on and to be flexible when blending the dress fabrics together. The book of dress designs Grandmother read to me had a variety of unusual and artistic examples, which despite the older date, proved to be possibilities should certain trends ever happen to resurface.

"Would you like to hear a new story today?" Grandmother Fælyn said, pulling the book of fairy stories out of the shelf.

"Yes, please!" I felt my heartbeat pick up with excitement. There was something inexpressibly lovely about the stories she read, something that continually harkened back to every time of my life that I ever existed. They were stories of things that seemed to have always existed: love, betrayal, want, greed, destruction, and salvation.

She sat down in the chair as I continued embroidering. I was now learning to do more complicated designs and shapes and patterns as well. In my hands was a hand towel, and I was embroidering a simple pastoral scene.

"Hmmm… which one shall I share next? Oh! I haven't told you the one about the Snow White princess!"

"How odd, it sounds as if she was half-dead, Grandmother. Is this a terribly morbid story?" I glanced at her with facetious worry.

She grinned at my cheekiness. "Oh, _terribly_. You see, once upon a time there was a beautiful queen who wanted a daughter more than anything in the world. Now, the woman was a witch, you see, and she cast a spell during the winter time with a piece of black wood, the pure white snow, and a drop of a blood to have a child who resembled those things just so."

Grandmother Fælyn went on to tell about how when the baby grew up she became so exceedingly beauty that her mother became enraged with jealousy. She consulted a mysterious magic mirror given to her by an equally mysterious old man who confirmed her suspicions that her Snow White daughter was indeed the most beautiful in the land.

"How did the mirror know that Snow White was the most beautiful in all the land?" I asked her, taking a momentary break. "What did that even mean? The perceptions of beauty seem to change so much. How did the mirror know that anyway? Wasn't that just his opinion?"

Grandmother Fælyn chuckled and looked at me with twinkly eyes. "My dear girl, you read far too much into everything. It's merely a silly little children's tale."

I scowled a bit and returned to my needlework. "Yes, I suppose, but I don't like that mirror with its mysterious impish face appearing out of nowhere and all his cryptic rhymes about things he doesn't know anything about. It all sounds so… so devious."

Grandmother Fælyn laughed a bit at this and picked the book back out. "Shall I continue on with the story?"

"Oh, I'm very sorry. Please, do, I was enjoying it, I promise." I felt so embarrassed interjecting all those tiresome silly comments. The story just had brought so much out of my mind, so many questions and mysteries.

"Now then, where was I? That's right, she had just discovered from the mirror about the girl. So she told her huntsman to take the girl out into the woods and kill her."

I gasped softly. "That's _awful_, her own _daughter!_"

Grandmother smiled slowly again. "Yes, indeed. So the huntsman took the girl out into the woods to kill her, but the girl had magical powers of her own and tricked the huntsman into letting her go. Then she ran away into the woods."

The girl eventually met and charmed seven somewhat unpleasant dwarves in a run down cottage somewhere in the woods. Meanwhile, her mother discovered, to her great dismay, that the girl was alive and so sent a flock of ravens to attack her. The girl, sensing an evil threat, devised a magical net that captured the ravens, and used her power to transform them into beautiful flowers amongst the woods. It wasn't until her mother came to her, disguised as an old beggar woman, that the girl was nearly killed. The old woman gave her a bite of an apple, which put the girl into an eternal coma. However a prince from a nearby kingdom was riding by that day.

"When he saw the young Snow White princess, he felt overcome with love for her and kissed her sleeping lips, to which she revived instantly. The dwarves were all thrilled to see her alive again, and she bade them goodbye before she and her prince left to go to his palace and live there forever together happily married. The end."

I frowned a bit, unsure of what to think. Unlike the previous story, this one had had such an unhopeful tone. "What is the moral of this story, Grandmother?"

"Hmmmmm," Grandmother Fælyn mused, folding her hands together calmly. We sat together silently for a few minutes. "I think this story is trying to communicate the dangers of trusting strangers, and that appearances are in fact deceiving." The odd twinkle was back in her eyes.

I thought for a minute. "Whatever happened to the queen and the mirror?"

Grandmother Fælyn sat out of her chair to put the book back. "Oh, I'm sure she died somehow or another. The mirror… who knows? Perhaps it's still around." She cackled good-humoredly and went back down the stairs. I set my needlework down and followed her.

"I _still_ think there wasn't something right about that mirror!" I called out after her.

She only cackled again and shook her head.

By the time I managed learning more complicated sewing techniques and learning how to make my own dress patterns and bring them to life, my stepfamily had already decided on the baked goods menu they would be serving at the new restaurant. Many of their recipes were good, but never good to the extent that Grandmother Fælyn's had been, and not definitely better than the other bakery's goods. However, Veda had made sure to keep an eye out on good cookbooks and had acquired several more of them to compare the recipes. Whatever they made tasted very safe, but I wondered if that wasn't exactly the reason I felt so bored with it, too. Cooking didn't have to be safe; it could be _exciting_. It could be spicy and sweet and nutty and a bit bitter and earthy and buttery and savory. It could make your tongue seek the spoon out anxiously, to explore the crooks and crannies of the flavor. It could make you feel alive and excited; it could take you far, far away.

I realized that with as much as I liked sewing, I would miss out on all exploration and the adventuring of the food. I'd miss selling it and smelling it, seeing people's faces light up as the saw it and their mouths begin to water. I'd miss giving them a taste of what they were about to fall in love with and then seeing it come to pass. I would just be stuck upstairs sewing dresses. And I would enjoy it, probably, and it would be safe, because I didn't _need_ to be downstairs selling all the food and meeting all the new people. It would be safe because I would be doing my part, and they would be doing theirs. I would make pretty, frilly things for the young women to come in and gawk at and twirl about in proudly and show off to all their friends. It would be safe; it was smart.

I liked safety. I liked smartness. I wanted to be safe and smart. But I couldn't help wondering if there wasn't just something _more_, something richer… And if perhaps cooking could be it.

But cooking wasn't it. Cooking was everyone else's job. Sewing was _my_ job.

I finished my first dress about the time the store was finally set up. It was a pretty light yellow color with flouncy white skirts that went very well with the pastel decorations the store was decorated in for spring. The bookshelves were kept, even if they hung about awkwardly in the room like a fresh widow at a wedding. Several wood pedestals had been erected, however, to hold cakes and muffins and other sweets. The bread was kept in the glass store counter and the ale right next to it. The windows were practically littered in ribbons and other decorative flourishes. The opening date seemed to be drawing nearer and nearer.

In times of trouble I found myself relying more and more on Grandmother Fælyn's food, stories, and support in the time I spent with her. Life seemed to be waning into such utter drudgery. Her house provided warmth and security – so different from the eternally functional and stiffly organized fashion of my own home. I did not want to complain about the matter and cause dissention and separation, but the division of labor seemed to accomplish the feat all on its own. Now that I was no longer apart of my family's current projects, there was no need for conversation – what did they have to talk about? The store was our life now. As long as I did my part, and they did their part, everyone would be happy. Yet, I wondered, would we?

The store opened a couple of weeks later to the beginning of summer and a flood of curious people in bright, colorful clothing. Veda was satisfied by my contribution, but the public largely ignored it in favor of the food. The ale was successful, though perhaps not so successful as Laurel had claimed in would be. Perhaps it also was a bit too much an anomaly.

Amidst all the creative displays of food and the pleasant amount of variety, Veda had left out one very important thing: a place to sit down. It wasn't a major _faux pas_ the first day, but as the opening rush began to subside, Veda realized more and more than she needed it. The townspeople needed ambiance and a place to rest to soak up the ambience. The food was good, but no one seemed to think it was sensational. Veda would have to strengthen her décor to make it work.

Laurel and Penta debuted as clerks, explaining the menus, fetching the baked goods, taking the money, and making change. It didn't sound enthralling, but it sounded… social, even real. It didn't sound like being so secluded from the market you wondered why you were even working.

I went to visit Grandmother Fælyn again as soon as I could manage. The late spring was just beginning to settle in, and her house looked so peculiarly stiff without any flowers to add color. Her neighbor had a garden bursting with lovely blossoms of varying colors.

She invited me in for a piece of a wonderful piece of her berry torte with strawberries, blueberries, and a couple of raspberries and blackberries from early blooming plants soaked in a wonderful vanilla cream, slightly suggestive of lemon – I presumed from the use of dried lemon rind from the previous summer.

I finished, she washed the dish, put the rest of the torte in the icebox, and we both climbed the stairs the attic area to being our ritualistic sewing and reading. The book I was looking at right now detailed more complicated ways to make dress sleeves to achieve the balloon sleeve effect as well as the flutter sleeve – both of which were demanding much more of my patience than I could afford.

"How is your son, Grandmother?" I said, suddenly. It had been a while since I had heard about him, though I had never seen him.

"He's fine," she mused, reading something. "Busy as usual. Both him and his wife. They just keeping going until the practically drop dead from fatigue and then go some more."

"What on earth do they work so hard for?" I silently reprimanded myself for sounding so rude, but I could not fathom what a childless couple who did not appear in debt could need practically all the hours in their day to work in order to survive.

Grandmother Fælyn did not take offense (she was so good humored), but merely laughed softly. "Oh, some debts I suppose, other little things, I don't know. I didn't want to ask so as to seem to trivialize their work."

I frowned and continued knitting. What was the point of taking in their mother when they wouldn't hardly speak to her? They were lucky she was their mother. If she was my mother, I…

I didn't know. I didn't know what I'd do with a mother. Perhaps love her, perhaps… nothing, I didn't know. Perhaps I would just do what they were doing. But I wouldn't; I didn't want that kind of rigid emotional distance.

We sat quietly for a few minutes. A gentle draft floated through the open window carrying a cool, fresh scent and a sudden awareness of pleasant tranquility. The musky smell of the attic began to diffuse little by little.

"Your son is doing himself a serious disservice, leaving you alone like this all time. He should be grateful for having a mother like you." I felt embarrassed, even foolish for saying something like that, but she merely smiled at the comment, not even looking my direction.

"I'm glad that you're here with me, Gerda. It's felt like really having a family again." Her voice was low and full of the milk and honey that seemed to reside in it like a secret cave, entered only on special occasions.

I finished an attempt at a flutter sleeve, but decided it looked clunky and dense and dispensed of it to start afresh. "Grandmother, won't you tell me another story?"

"Alright… let me think of a good summer story… Mmmm, I haven't told you about the girl locked in the tower, have I?"

I thought for a minute, for the story sounded familiar.

"Was there a dragon involved?"

"No," she laughed. "That's some other popular myth. No this was the story about a witch who locked a girl in a tower, then used her hair to climb up it like a rope."

I cringed. "Why would she do _that?_ That's horrid!"

Grandmother laughed again. "Shall I tell you so you can find out?"

"I suppose so," I mumbled. I was more disturbed than intrigued, but I was compelled to hear more as well, if anything just to move the time along,

Grandmother Fælyn searched through her book and found the story. There had been an old witch who had been "very foolish and insensible," and had lived all alone in a beautiful garden full of wonderful flowers and fruits and vegetables. One day, a young couple build a house nearby, unaware that a ways into the wood lived the old witch. The couple was vivacious and very much in love, and they were expecting a young baby. He was a very talented gardener and had come to set up a farm to grow food and eventually to have animals on. The witch decided that she very much wanted their baby and had no qualms about what methods she used. She decided to put a curse on the farmer's fields so that everything he grew died.

"That's _awful_! The poor farmer!" I interjected, seized with horror.

Grandmother Fælyn's face twisted into a wry expression. "Oh, it gets better. Listen to this."

The farmer managed for a little bit to continue buying food with his money and to continue buying supplies to salvage his field, but eventually the witch's curse ran him entirely out of money. His wife was entering her final trimester and the two of them became very scared, fearing for both their lives and the life of their baby. The husband eventually heard of the witch that lived nearby and consulted her. He asked for her help in restoring the soil so that he could continue planting on it. The witch was more than willing to help cast a spell to bring back the land's fertility as well as to supply the farmer with food to last him through the coming winter. He was overjoyed and overcome with gratitude, asking her to name her price and it would be hers. The witch remarked that when the time came, she would come to claim her payment.

The woman carried her baby girl to full term, and it was indeed a lovely child. However, one night, several months after the birth, the crone came and snatched the baby from the family and fled off into the woods. The farmer and his wife were devastated and moved shortly thereafter to a new town to forget the tragedy that had befallen them.

The witch hid the girl away in the woods until the girl's twelfth birthday, when the girl had finally grown so lovely and beautiful, the witch was certain she would be stolen away by a man for to be his bride. When that day came, the woman tricked the girl into entering an old house deeper into the woods, which the witch transformed into a tower. Every night the woman would comb her hair with a magic hairbrush that grew it longer and longer until at last the girl's hair became the length of the tower.

I gawked at this, feeling more outraged and disgusted than I realized I would. "That's _awful_; how could that girl even stand up against the weight of her hair?"

Grandmother Fælyn did not comment, but smiled again smugly, as if she knew she was telling a good story.

"One day a young prince from a neighboring kingdom came a-wandering through the woods on his stallion." The prince found the tower and happened to spy the witch calling out a magic chant to induce the girl's hair to tumble neatly down the tower wall into braided rope. The woman climbed up the braid and began speaking with the girl. The prince saw her from a brief glimpse and thought she was very lovely. When the witch climbed back down, the prince repeated the chant to the same result. Though the girl was very surprised, she quickly fell in love with the prince and he with her. The prince wanted to run away with her to marry her, but he did not know how so he decided to return with a rope long enough and strong enough to carry them both down. They began to tie numerous ropes together and hide them in hopes of one day being able to climb all the way down together. But they had to be very careful, for the prince had to be gone before the girl's mother came back.

One day, the witch found out about the prince – though it wasn't really explained how – and she cut off the girl's hair and tied her up. When the prince came calling again, the witch lowered the hair to him and allowed him to climb up. When he reached the top she lunged at him and in the struggle, he plummeted from the tower.

I caught my breath at this. "Did he _die?_"

Grandmother Fælyn paused and looked me in the eyes cautiously before proceeding. "Oh, no, he didn't die, he just became blind."

"_Oh!_" I exclaimed, not quite as disappointed, but still disappointed. With all the witch had done, how could she win in the end?

Grandmother turned back to her book and began reading a little bit quicker. "The old woman banished the girl to wander the desert. One day, as the girl was drawing water from a desert well, she found the prince and saw that he was blind. Overcome with both joy and sadness, she began to weep and her tears seeped into his eyes and cured his blindness. And they lived happily ever after. The end."

I looked at her queerly. The ending had seemed so rushed this time and even forced. What an odd story it had been: exhilarating and confusing and tragic and then almost anticlimactic. "Is that it?" was all I could manage.

The old woman nodded and put the book back in the shelf. "Did you manage to finish your sleeve?"

"Yes," I replied slowly. She seemed oddly evasive. "Was that really the ending to the story? It seemed so awfully rushed."

She laughed and headed downstairs. "Well, I did doctor it up a bit. In the original the prince and the girl managed to complete the rope and leave the tower."

"And whatever happened to the old witch?"

"I don't know; perhaps she died."

I frowned and followed after her. "And what was the moral of that story?"

She paused a moment and then responded, "If you hold on to people too tightly, you will lose them in the end."

_What an odd story_, was all I could think.

**Authors Note: I feel very mixed about the first story, but I like the second. All and all, there are several spots where I think there could be less telling and more showing – at least concerning what Gerda is wearing and things like that – but there are also some spots that Gerda does a lot of telling, and I'm not sure she really **_**can**_** do a lot of showing. So, as always, tell me what you think! This first part before Gerda meets Kay is very much a love story (platonically of course) between Gerda and the Grandmother, so do tell me what you think of their relationship. Also, readers, I would greatly suggest you pay attention to the stories the Grandmother tells and specifically things that have been changed from the originals and most popular story. ;D Enjoy!**


	5. Chapter 5

By the time I sold my first dress, I had already finished my second one, a light coral gauze layer with a sash covering a lacey snow-white petticoat: completed of course, with flutter sleeves. The woman who had bought the yellow one was much too old and much too large, and I felt certain she bought it only because it had been on display for far too long and she began to pity it. The coral one didn't take nearly as long to sell, and the buyer was a girl much more appropriately aged for it. After that, the demand for dresses picked up quite a bit more than I had first expected and where there first had been anti-social serenity, there was now anti-social mania.

Penta and Laurel continued managing the store with Veda, although the both of them would periodically vanish for lessons, which Veda continually pushed for. The profits of the store were enough to support both of their budding career ambitions, which Veda knew could prove to be infinitely more successful than the bakery. On the occasion when either of them had to leave, I would step in for a couple of hours, until they could take their posts back. It wasn't nearly as pleasant as I had hoped, especially due to my own ignorance of the stores products and locations. Every member of my family took turns quizzing me about where everything was. No one needed to punish me if I failed recall: that was the customers' job.

With all the hustle and bustle, I hardly had enough time to continue visiting Grandmother, but I still managed to every now and then – making certain to keep our friendship a priority so that it didn't fade into obscurity. I missed hearing the soothing sound of the stories and the excitement and horror at their plot twists. Summer seemed to be bleeding away before my eyes, and I mourned the lack of memories I had already managed to incur over the past several months.

When I next saw her, she seemed weary, but very glad to see me again. "What's kept you so long? You been too busy to see old Grandmother Fælyn?" She cackled, but it seemed dry and un-lyrical.

I glanced away guiltily. "Well, someone bought my first dress, and then someone bought my second, and just yesterday someone bought my third. So, suddenly I have an unexpected demand and hardly any time to just live." It sounded feeble coming out of my lips, but it was the truth.

Grandmother nodded sagely, understanding all, judging none.

"But I, um," I continued awkwardly, "I did miss you, and I did want to see you again and sit together in the attic and sew and read stories."

The old woman smiled a soft, warm smile, and I realized how almost hard she had looked moments before. "Well, I've missed you, too. Why don't you come in?"

I returned the smile and stepped inside. She had something in the oven, but this time it smelled much more savory, unlike her usual baked goods. She walked over to it, lifted the lid, checked it, then let it continue to bake.

"What are you making today, Grandmother?" I asked, feeling more shy than usual.

"A tomato pie, dearie." It had been so long since she had called me that; it almost felt anomalous.

I watched her as she poured us two glasses of water from her water bucket, and looked around her kitchen again. The cherry cabinets were so smart and so warm. I had never noticed before, but the wall behind them was painted a very pale salmon color. The ladles, whisks, spatulas, and other kitchen utensils in the small container by the oven were all accented with a dark red. The table I sat at was also cherry with carefully curved legs and small delicate wood patterns on the surface.

The woman was so intelligent and so sophisticated, and yet in the oddest of moments she took up the most absurd façade of being old and senile and endearingly outdated. But she wasn't – she was sharp and perceptive and stylish. Yet she wore her age like a mask, cackling and cooing and then suddenly speaking with all the silky grace of a caramel melted into coffee.

"I really, _really_ am sorry, Grandmother. I didn't mean to… I don't know, abandon you…"

She chuckled. "Gerda, dear, you didn't _abandon_ me; I do have children after all."

"Yes, I know," I continued, as though in the middle of a confession, "it's just that I've been so busy, I've barely been able to breathe, what with all the dressmaking and substituting in for Laurel and Penta when they go off to their lessons and now working on the fourth dress and Veda always checking up on me…" I almost felt hysterical, and I didn't know why. It had all been so overwhelming, and even though I didn't realize it at the time, I suddenly felt so unprepared for a lifetime of what I was doing. I felt so unsure of a lifetime of anything. The future, which had once seemed so nebulous and mystical, now seemed even more drudging and imprisoning than I could even imagine.

Grandmother Fælyn laid the glasses of water on the table, sat down across from me, and reached over and gently took my hand, massaging it in a tender, maternal fashion. I caught my breath and realized I had almost been shaking. "What did your second dress look like, Gerda?"

"It, um, it…" I struggled to remember as I began to calm down. "It was this coral color, and it was very pretty. It had a chiffon exterior that divided at the bottom to reveal white petticoats… and there was a sash sewed into it that formed a bow at the back… and it had flutter sleeves."

"What about your third one?"

"It, um… it was a white chiffon dress with flutter sleeves, too, and there was a black velvet vest around the bodice area with brass buttons and a frilly lace collar that laid on top of it."

"What's this next one you're working on?"

I took a sip of water, the anxiety at last dissipating into the air. "It's… I think it's going to be a dress with a blue velvet top with balloon sleeves… and um," I took another sip of water. "And I think a white skirt attached to it, with little blue flowers embroidered on it here and there."

Grandmother Fælyn let out a murmur of deep satisfaction "My, how lovely, Gerda. You're doing such a fine job. I've always wanted to make dresses like that, but I suppose I never was patient enough. That's why I opened up the antique dress shop so that, somehow, someway, I would be able to sell dresses and fell a part of that beautiful, beautiful world." Her dark eyes seemed to twinkle like the evening sky, full of mystery and lush promises. She had been young once.

"What was your husband like, Grandmother?" I wanted to see the starlight again in her eyes. I wanted to know who she had been.

She laughed, but the laugh felt weak and airy. "Oh… he's an eccentric. Full of dreams and schemes. He's very… strong-minded and persistent; he knows what he wants and he's determined to get it."

I was surprised by her use of the present tense. "He isn't still living, is he?" I shouldn't have sounded so shocked and appalled, but how could he possibly be working all day like her son and daughter.

"Well…" her face was humorous in the way people got when they didn't know what else to be. "Well, yes he is. He's still around, somewhere. We see each other occasionally."

"_Occasionally?_" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, he travels, you see. And he sends me a letter when he's in town, but… um, merchants are so busy, you know. They always have to be going places, doing things."

I nodded, thinking of my own father. He had barely been at home to be a presence to his kids, let alone his wife.

Grandmother's face tinged red with embarrassment, and she got up from her chair. "Let me just see if that pie is ready, yet."

It was, thankfully, and the awkward discussion of Grandmother's marriage was instead replaced with the delightful fumes of the pie. It was a tomato pie, as strange as it sounded. Despite the smell, I wondered if Grandmother Fælyn had perhaps been a bit too daring this time, but just as the fumes had smelled wonderful, so did the pie taste. The top was a delightful mixture of mozzarella and racclette cheese. The tomatoes, soft, but no longer gushing with juice, were spiced in basil, oregano, and a couple of other spices I couldn't detect. The soft cheese top blended irresistibly with the baked tomatoes, creating unity between the milky sweetness of the soft cheeses with the zesty tartness of the tomatoes.

"Grandmother, I've never had anything before of yours that wasn't a dessert. Why don't you make things like this more often? It's quite delicious!" I wiped my mouth with the napkin.

Grandmother Fælyn also ate a slice, aberrant of her usual bystander rites. She smiled and swallowed. "Well, I made this for dinner. I usually only made the sweets in case I had company."

"But you make so _much_ food! Don't you ever get tired of doing it? Do you eat it all or does your son and his wife eat it?" It seemed unfathomable that she would bake pies and cookies and tortes and cakes all day long just in case there was a chance that someone would drop by.

"It's not so bad, besides I like cooking and baking; it gives me something to do," she finished eating the slice and set another one on her plate.

I grimaced at her usual cryptic answers, and cut myself off another slice. "Doesn't the food go to waste? Do you often have strangers in your house?" I repeated carefully.

"Oh, it disappears," she said. "I never have to worry about that."

I dropped the issue, reluctantly accepting the ambiguity in favor of peace.

Outside the wind was beginning to pick up and clouds danced with rays of sunlight that were perpetually bursting through them. Patches of grey and white swirled in tenuous drama with the blue sky. The trees and grass blew as though they were being tickled innocently.

I missed this: I missed the smell of food steaming out of the oven, and nature fussing with itself outside the window. I missed leaflets strung across the walls and the flush of earthy colors. I missed the dreamy sigh of air in the summer and the gay crackle of firewood in the winter.

There were stories to be told here: not all at once, but slowly soaking into consciousness over time. There were cakes that mysteriously disappeared. There were books waiting on shelves to be read.

"Shall I read you another story, today?" Grandmother's voice was laden with anticipation as she took our empty plates and washed them.

"Oh, I… I didn't bring anything to sew with…" I had hardly realized this until now. It seemed so unlike me, and I hardly knew what I was expecting from the visit – just to say hello and then leave?

"That's alright, we'll just read one anyway. We can sit together on the couch; I'll make some tea and cookies for us to nibble on."

"Oh, but Veda will be upset with me for slacking off."

"Veda will live if you take a rest for one day," she smiled playfully, boiling some water on the stove and reheating the coals in the oven.

I opened my mouth to voice dissent then realized she was right. Veda _would_ live – and I should be living, too, instead of being encaged in the upper apartment of a store like a pet mouse. I _needed_ human interaction – _real_ interaction, not just "hello, how are you today, can I help you with your purchase" and then "why, yes, thank you, what is your honey-wheat bread like today?" and of course "oh, excellent ma'am (or sir), can I ring you up a loaf?" and at last "oh, thank you, that would be wonderful." It was just too monotonous, too unemotional, too superficial. It was all a giant business, all a transaction, but there was nothing left when the transaction was complete, just another transaction with another person to be made.

I was born to live, made to live. I was not going to just sit around and watch the hours go by. I was going to do something today – take a moment to breathe and then to fly.

"Well, then… well, perhaps you'll let me help you bake the cookies then?" I asked, terrified at what I had just said. Would she decline? Would she be offended?

Grandmother Fælyn turned around and looked at me. "You really want to?"

I nodded, feeling my face go pale.

She shrugged and then amiably waved me over. "In the second drawer over to your right – no, not that one, yes, _that_ one – there's a couple of measuring utensils. Let me see… I need a cup, a teaspoon, a tablespoon, and there be a half of a tea- oh, yes there it is, perfect. Now let's see… No above that is another cabinet with some of my baking ingredients. They should be labeled. Let's see, I'll be needing… flour, baking powder, sugar, powdered sugar, baking soda, and… oh, dear… oh, of course! Salt!" She laughed. "And there should be some bottles of lemon extract and vanilla extract in there as well."

I scoped out the ingredients as she fetched butter, eggs, and buttermilk from the icebox and nutmeg from another cabinet full of bottled spices.

"Now then, let's mix this, this, this and _this_ all together. Here, let me get a bowl." She pulled out two from a lower cabinet. "One for you, one for me. Yes, in this bowl just whisk them all together with this whisk, while I beat the butter and sugar together."

She measured out the flour, baking soda, salt, and handed me a whisk, which I used to carefully stir the ingredients as she dropped a stick of butter into a bowl and started furiously spinning the handle of the metal contraption.

"Oh, Gerda dear, it's all in the wrist. Try not to jerk your arm about so, and just let your wrist do all the movement." She stopped beating and raised a hand to show what she meant.

I nodded and did my best to imitate her motions.

"There, that's better."

I continued stirring, while she measured and beat in the sugar, vanilla, eggs, buttermilk, and finally baking soda. Then she gradually poured in the dry mixture I had whisked, while I continued to mix the new mixture with a wooden spoon. When at last we finished, she began heating the oven up as she put the dough in the icebox to cool.

We climbed up the staircase to the attic, and Grandmother got the book of fairytales. We sat on the couch together peacefully, and Grandmother put on her spectacles to read. "Have I told you the story of the miller's daughter?"

"Yes, you have Grandmother. I think that was one of the first ones you told me," I replied.

"Oh." She frowned, looking through the titles in the book, then stopped. "I'm sure I haven't told you the story about the boy and the giant beanstalk, have I?"

"No, I don't think so, Grandmother." I glanced at the illustration to find a particularly lovely image of a strong young man climbing an enormous looking vine, high in the clouds.

Grandmother flipped the pages back to another illustration of a majestic castle, floating in the clouds. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful castle built on a floating island in the clouds. It was made entirely of gold and ivory and there was a beautiful stream that flowed around it and through it, fading eventually into the mist. The king who lived there had a very lovely daughter, perhaps the most beautiful daughter in the entire world. His court wizard was a shrewd, cunning little man named Merdok who wanted the princess and the kingdom all to himself."

I closed my eyes and felt myself slipping away into the story as she read. When the king found out, he apparently cast the wizard down from the heavens into the countryside of a small kingdom. Lost and dazed, the wizard wandered around, thirsty and increasingly incensed with his punishment, until he found a small cottage in the woods where an amorous young woodsman lived with his mother. The woodsman was trying to sell a cow to make enough money to entice a girl into marrying him, when the wizard seized the opportunity. He acquired several simple beans and enchanted them with magic so that they would grow up into a stalk tall enough to reach the castle, then tricked the boy into trading the cow for his beans, telling him that the beans would lead him to his one true love. The wizard thought the boy was not only foolish enough to make the deal, but might also be able to steal his old master's daughter as revenge.

The boy was indeed foolish enough to make the trade, and his mother became furious when he told her of his newly acquired "magic beans," tossing them out the window in her rage. The day the beans had sprouted into a stalk several miles high. The boy, who was extremely strong and physically gifted, decided to climb the vine, which was rather like a ladder, until at last he knew where the beanstalk ended. After many, many long hours of climbing – even days – the boy finally managed to see at last where the stalk ended. To his great surprise, he discovered the castle and found his way into it. The whole of the kingdom was very surprised to see that a man from the under-world could possibly find a way to make it to their land, so they brought him to their king to find out what they should do with him. When the lad came before the throne, he saw the princess and was overcome by her beauty. The princess, who initially was very uninterested in him, soon found herself strangely fascinated by his unusual ways and fell in love with him. The king was a giant, burly man who did not approve of his daughter cavorting with the lad, while he and his council figured out what to do with him. He had other plans of marrying his daughter off to a far more suitable man. The lad and the princess, however, were devastated at the idea of ever having to part, and so decided to run away together back down the beanstalk to be married. The king was furious when he realized that they two had left and thunderously chased after them down the beanstalk. The boy, who was very scared of what the king might do if he ever got down, decided to cut the beanstalk down so that there would be no traversing between both lands. However, he failed to notice the king, and so when he chopped the stalk down, the king fell and plummeted to his death. The two of them were then married and lived happily together.

She then closed her book and put it away.

I felt myself getting confused again. "Wait a minute, do you mean that even though the lad just killed her father, she's not going to have some serious issues with her sense of trust and security? I mean, who marries the man who killed your father?"

"I'm sure she wasn't very fond of her father. He was a very selfish person and was holding her hostage from living with passion and conviction."

I sat up off the coach and followed her downstairs. "I'm sure she must have had a reason for disliking him, but sill, isn't murder a bit over the top?"

She shrugged.

"I wonder if she and her husband had some pretty serious emotional drama going on in their household after that."

Grandmother Fælyn opened the icebox and felt the dough, then, deeming it cold enough, paced the dough on the counter and pulled out a metal spoon. "Now then, we're going to use the spoon to dump a dollop of the dough onto the cookie sheet I've prepared."

I scooped up a ball of dough then dumped it on the cookie sheet. Even cold, it released a pungently sweet scent. "Ah, I forgot to ask, Grandmother. What was the moral of today's story?"

She shrugged again, "I'm not sure this one does have a moral."

I continued scooping the dough, but I felt especially confused with the comment. "So, do you think the boy was justified in killing the giant, or do you think they should have discussed getting married all together? I just can't help wondering if the king's death was really necessary and what the story really ends with."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Grandmother Fælyn replied. "I don't think the lad was justified in his behavior. I suppose I've never really been induced to think about it any more than that."

We finished one cookie sheet, put it in the oven then moved on to the next empty one. The cookies didn't look particularly delicious, but I hoped that the heat would let them expand out horizontally.

"I think we out to invent a moral for the story so that it doesn't sound quite so bleak…"

The old woman chuckled good-naturedly. "What would you suggest? Don't kill?"

"No, I mean… perhaps, your past will return to haunt you."

She smiled at me as she put the next cookie sheet in the oven. "That doesn't sound like an adage, dear; it sounds more like a threat!"

We both laughed, and wiped our hand on a towel.

"Perhaps, then, the things of your past will stay with your present, whether for good or for ill," I said.

She thought about it for a minute. "Where did you come up with that one?"

"Well, the king wasn't very nice to his wizard and his daughter, and in the end they both betrayed him. If he had been kinder, perhaps things would have been different. And the lad… well, I don't know for certain but I'm sure what he did came around again."

She stopped and then murmured to herself, "I'm sure it did…" Then suddenly, with more gusto: "oh yes, let's hurry up and make that icing and reheat the water for the tea before the cookies are done!"

She moved to reheat the stove where the pot of water was sitting cold and then, putting away all the unnecessary ingredients, was left with the powdered sugar, lemon extract, salt, and butter. "Alright, let's measure everything out. I'll need a half of a cup of this, a teaspoon of that, and just a pinch of the salt. She brought up yet another bowl and another stick of butter from the icebox. I measured the ingredients as she beat the butter with the metal mixer. When she was ready, I added the measured ingredients, and she beat again until at last the mixture was complete.

"This is the icing for the sugar cookies. I always like mine with a bit of a fruity taste, personally. The cookies are almost ready; let's clean up the bowls and utensils as we wait." She took a bowl and began soaking and scrubbing it in the little basin half full of water. I sat the rest of the dishes in with it and began cleaning them alongside her. We didn't speak very much, but the feeling was of mutual enjoyment. There were delicious cookies that were we had both made, waiting to be enjoyed by us in just a matter of minutes, and the water was warm and soothing as we washed the dishes off. We set the dishes aside to be sanitized later by boiling water, and Grandmother checked the cookies to make sure they were ready.

"Dear, would you set a towel on the table so I can lay the cookie sheet on it?"

I found a red one hanging on the oven and place it on the table as she put on oven mitts and carried the tray to the towel.

"There, that's better, dear!"

"Grandmother, how soon until we can have the cookies?" I found myself acting like a little child, but the deliciously sweet of the aroma was enticing me almost beyond my power.

She chuckled again. "Oh, why don't we wait a couple of minutes? At least until a bit after the other batch is ready. Then we'll spread the lemon icing on them, and they'll be ready."

We sat down at the table watching the cookies cool emit a pleasant kind of heat. It struck me then just how much the old woman did know about cooking – more than just a few simple recipes she could do well. She seemed to have recipes of all sorts at her beck and call.

Again the mystery: how did she know all these recipes?

"Grandmother, who taught you all these recipes? You have so many."

"Oh, I've picked them up here and there. Neighbors shared things with me, some I've gotten from cookbooks, some I just sort of invented."

"They're so good; why did you never start a bakery?"

The old woman let out a breath of air, which I couldn't discern was a sigh from the effort of the cooking or a sigh of annoyance at my questions. Regardless, it made me feel very self-conscious. "I used to bake a long time ago. I loved baking just as I loved sewing. I used to bake things all the time for my husband and my… son. When they both left, I… I thought I'd make a go of it alone. The business wasn't very successful, to say the least."

I gaped. How could her cooking _not_ be successful? The mere thought of it was absurd.

"I… I suppose I was terribly disappointed with the whole thing… and I just gave it up as a profession. When I came here, I wanted to start over and find something new. I loved dresses, and I wanted to be in an environment that was less competitive, I suppose, and a little bit more… I don't know, secluded? Even isolated, I suppose?" Her eyes had a suddenly sad look, the way the trees looked when most of their leaves had fallen off.

"I'm so sorry, Grandmother. Really, I shouldn't have asked." I felt so clumsy and so invasive, mauling into people's private lives without a care of what I'd find. My heart and head felt sore from the weight of the remorse.

She smiled gently at me and took my hand. "It's alright, Gerda, dear. It's been such a long time since somebody was actually interested in my life, past or present. It feels nice that someone notices me and wants to know who I am – or was, I suppose."

We took the cookies out, and I iced the ones that had cooled, while Grandmother cooled the coals in the oven. The tea she brewed was milky and a bit spicy with a touch of honey and a pinch of ginger.

"Alright, let's test out the cookies!" she exclaimed eagerly. We took one each and bit into it. The lemon icing carried the weight of the flavor, surprisingly, but the sugar cookie itself was still a delicious base, mild and sweet and soft. The combination of tea and cookie was equally as wonderful as I had expected it to be, blending the ginger, lemon, cream, and sweet dough into perfect equilibrium and wonderfully refreshing aroma.

"This is marvelous," I told her. "This is really marvelous. Really, everything my family comes up with positively pales in comparison to this. I don't know how your bakery failed; the people must have been eating rocks and dirt to not be able to appreciate this."

Her face flushed at the compliment, and the corners of her mouth played at another smile, though a much more embarrassed one. "That really isn't very far from the truth."

"How could it not be? Do you mind if I have another one?" I wiped my mouth with the napkin.

"Oh, please do."

I reached in for another one, dunked it into the tea and plopped it in my mouth.

"Perhaps we should make some biscotti sometime, Gerda; would you like that?" She was pleasantly amused by my ecstasy from her food.

"What is biscotti?" I asked.

"Biscotti are a sort of cookie that you use to dunk in coffee."

I marveled at this – especially that _we_ would bake anything together. "That sounds nice. Perhaps when it gets colder, Grandmother."

The old woman grinned. "Oh, yes, that's when it tastes best!"

I looked at the remaining cookies, more than two dozen of them. "What are you going to do with the rest of them, Grandmother?"

She looked down at them, too, and thought. "Oh, I don't know; why don't you take a dozen home for your family? I'll find something to do with the rest of them."

"_You mean it?_" I could barely contain my enthusiasm.

She laughed. "It'll give you an excuse to tell Veda what you've been doing with your time!"


	6. Chapter 6

**This is actually one of my favorite chapters of the story I've written so far. Though the conflict is subtle, it's palpable in her stepfamily's reactions to the cookies and to the growing awareness Gerda finds with Grandmother Fælyn and her husband's complex relationship. Tell me if you find it gushy or dull or overly sentimental and the like; otherwise, enjoy!**

I left Grandmother Fælyn'a shortly after, and returned to see the store in full swing. It was pressing on evening time, when many parents got off from work and went to fetch a loaf of bread or a few desserts for their family's meal that night. Penta and Laurel were busy finding and fetching things for the customers, while Veda would take the coins and hand the customers their change. I made my way up to the stairs and brought the cookies up with me. In an hour or two, the store would close, and we would gather for our dinner, which consisted of leftover bread with jam and cheese and an omelet with whatever vegetables we could find for the day. Until then, I would just continue working on the dress. I wondered if my family would be excited to have the cookies for dessert.

The clocked ticked on, and I listened as the rush of people dwindled down and eventually faded altogether. A few minutes late, Veda, Laurel, and Penta all came up the stairs with a couple loaves of bread.

"The three cheese bread didn't sell well today," Veda remarked unpleasantly. "It didn't sell well yesterday, either. Is it no longer popular? We need to find a better recipe for it."

"Mrs. Fyodor requested another batch of the sesame seed muffins, and we were all out," Laurel responded.

"Unforgivable," Veda muttered. "We absolutely cannot afford to make such careless calculations."

"I have some dessert for dinner today," I interjected.

"Where were you today?" Veda said, ignoring my comment. "We need that new dress done as quickly as possible. That empty model is very unseemly. I hope you were not out entertaining Mrs. Asheputtel again – really, you must learn to put work first."

I said nothing, but secretly I resented her and her eternal-business mind more than I realized I ever would.

We began preparing the omelet and setting the table. I sat the cookies near the edge so that they would be noticed, but would not interfere with the meal.

"What's that?" Laurel said, looking at the cookies.

"They're cookies," I replied quietly.

"Where did you get them?" asked Penta, eyeing them almost with disdain.

"Grandmother, ah, Mrs. Asheputtel and I made them. They're sugar cookies with lemon icing. They're really good. Maybe we could sell them in the bakery?" I realized I felt much more nervous under my family's scrutiny than usual. Perhaps it was because I was almost seeking their approval – their validation of what I'd used my time for and whether it had been a success.

Laurel pulled one out and bit into it. "Not bad. Too sweet, I think." She handed one to Veda and Penta.

"This wouldn't go at all in the bakery," Veda remarked coldly and tossed the remnants of the cookie with the waste.

"I don't like it," was all Penta said.

"Oh, but it goes wonderfully with tea. She made a cream tea with honey and ginger and it was all wonderful." I felt disappointment tug at my face.

"We don't sell tea," was all Veda said.

Dinner was set, and we gathered, prayed, and ate. The whole time, though, I felt like such a fool for trying to contribute something. Yet, at the same time, I felt so angry at their dismissal of my efforts. I was trying to live – trying to do something, be someone. I wanted to grow and change and flourish.

Here in a store filled with things I loved, I felt so dead, as if there wasn't any point to even waking up. You rose in the morning just to spend the day earning a way to live again the next day and the next day and the day after that. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to want, or to understand.

But I said nothing. I was not going to argue with them, nor was I going to show signs that I had been hurt. But I wouldn't give up going to Grandmother's house. No matter who told me, I was not going to give up the one thing that reminded me I was truly alive.

I made sure not to stay away from her house for too long again – Grandmother was my most important person, and I was determined not to let her feel abandoned. We continued with stories, and she let me help her cook some, as well. But mostly we just sat together and talked. She had decided to try her hand again at embroidery so that we could both sew at the same time. Eventually she started to get the hang of it more and more, so we began to talk about other things besides what we were sewing.

"Gerda," she said one day, "don't you have any friends your own age?"

I looked up at her, almost surprised to hear her asking me personal questions as well. "I… I don't know… I don't know if you would consider Laurel and Penta my friends… they're my sisters, so I suppose they're also my friends.

Grandmother shook her head at this. "No, no, I mean… people you go to visit just because you want to see them… people you do things with, and live life with… because you just want to live life with them. You want to see the world the way they see it… understand them."

There was no one even to that description in my life except…

"You, Grandmother. You're my friend. You _are_ my friend, aren't you? I mean… aren't we friends?"

Grandmother laughed. "Of course we're friends, Gerda! You know I'm very fond of you! Who else do I have to make sweets for?"

I blushed at the comment, then wondered about her own family.

"But no, I mean… people _your_ age? Or… or maybe there's a boy that you like?"

No boy came to mind. I shook my head. "I'm afraid not, Grandmother."

She let out a disappointed sound. "My, my. You're almost reaching marriageable age, Gerda. Don't you want to marry someone someday?"

I paused and thought about my own parents. Marriage? Had that ever really meant anything? Momma and Papa… had they ever really seemed like there was anything special between them? Even Grandmother and her husband, what had marriage even created between them?

"I don't know," I said shyly. "Marriage is all so… silly in my opinion. Falling in love like that… I suppose I don't really even understand what that means."

Grandmother stopped knitting and stared off into space with a glow on her face. "Ah, but Gerda, loving someone is the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world. And when you marry someone, you promise to love them forever and ever."

Her youth seemed to emerge suddenly from the deep waters of her face, washing away the years of age until at last she was a young woman again, deeply and fatally in love with someone – someone who gave her up for his profession, or at least that was all I could gather from the situation. Why anyone would give up Grandmother was absurd.

"But Grandmother," I responded, "what if the one you love stops loving you… what then?"

Her face seemed to flicker and wither, but the glow still remained. "Then that is very sad… and very hard. But if you truly love someone, you will never stop; no matter what they say or do to you, you will always love them. You will climb mountains and cross oceans… you will learn to fly for them. It is only the people whose love was fickle from the start… they are the only people whose love fades away."

She almost looked like she was going to cry.

I took her hand, and she squeezed mine. We sat together in a few moments of silence. Then she spoke again. "It's hard, Gerda; it's very hard not seeing him. He's always so… busy, and I don't know what he's gotten himself into most of the time, and I'm… I'm so worried about him… He… he's scheming something and…" The tears began to trickle down her cheek, but she wiped them away. "Gerda, you should meet someone who loves you a lot. You should meet someone young and healthy and full of life, who'll take you on wild adventures. You're so young and pretty, dear; you have the whole world ahead of you. Ah, what a perfect wife you'd make!" She laughed suddenly, like a rainbow emerging bright and strong from the end of a storm.

I hugged her, and she hugged me back closely. "Maybe… maybe Grandmother."

"Why don't I read you another story while you work? Wouldn't that be nice?" She sniffed again and released me to find the book on the shelf.

I continued sewing and waited for her to come back. When she did, she seemed to have already found the story picked out. "This one is about a young girl with three older sisters who had to work as a servant in her own house." She pulled her spectacles out of her pocket and put them on. "Ah, yes, that's right, the little cinder-wench girl."

There once was a beautiful girl, Grandmother said, that lived with her three older sisters in a grand house. Their parents long dead, the girl's sisters did not have the means to support her as they were busy carrying on as people of their station in order to attract suitors. The eldest sister, a very strict and businesslike woman, also had the responsibility of making sure the finances were in order and that the girls were properly taken care of. Because none of the elder sisters had the time to manage the house, those duties were left to the youngest sister, a girl they nicknamed "Cinders" because her face was always covered in soot from the fireplace. One day, the girl went out into the marketplace to fetch some food. The people of the marketplace looked down upon her and thought of her as nothing more than a servant because of her clothes and face making her look like she had low status. But that day, she met a kind and handsome man who took an interest in her, even though she looked like she was of a lower station. The man was a foreigner and a traveler at that, but the two soon became friends. As time went on they began to fall in love with each other. One day, the man told the girl that he could no longer see her anymore because he was the prince of the fairies and he was betrothed to another. At the end of a three-day ceremonial ball, he would have to marry the princess or abdicate his throne.

"The girl was devastated, but you see, the girl happened to have a fairy godmother who knew the way to the prince's palace. The girl begged her to give her a chance to see the prince one last time, and her godmother granted it. The girl was given a beautiful dress, slippers, and a carriage with servants to take her to the fairy ball – but the godmother's power would only last until the stroke of midnight, for she was not a powerful fairy."

I smiled and continued listening to the story. Tonight's story seemed to echo with rewards and happiness at the end. A girl who appeared to be nothing more than a servant, winning the love of a prince. Surely it would all work out in the end?

As Grandmother continued to read, I saw the scene play out. The girl arrived at the palace each night and each night, the prince, knowing who she was, refused to dance with anyone but her, including his future bride. By the time the third night was reaching an end, the prince and the cinder-girl knew that they both could not live without the other. The prince decided that he would indeed abdicate his throne and announce that he would marry the human girl instead, but just as he was about to do it, the clock struck midnight, and the cinders-girl had to flee from the palace, leaving behind a beautiful fairy-slipper made of enchanted glass. The prince held the shoe up and determined that he would only marry the woman whose foot fit the shoe.

"Of course, the fairy shoes could only fit the feet of the one they were made for," Grandmother said.

"Of course," I repeated facetiously.

In the end, none of the women at the ball, including his bride, could fit their feet into the shoe. The prince arrived at the home of the cinders-girl, slipped the shoe on her foot, and declared that she would be his bride. His parents were none-too-pleased with the turn of events, and the prince was forced to abdicate his throne in the end anyway.

"But he and his bride were very, very happy together, and that was what mattered most. For a life without love is a life not worth living – a life stuck in a cell of loneliness. These two people knew that, and when they broke out of their own cells to find one another, they were at last free to truly live. And live they did, happily for a long, long time."

I smiled, feeling warm and strangely refreshed. Even though the prince had given up his kingdom, he had won what was truly most important – love. I wondered if someone would ever come to love me like that, and what it would feel like. I wondered if it would be so powerful, I would never live life the same way again.

"Say, Grandmother, do you think the moral of today's story is all about love? You know, because of how love managed to overcome all the obstacles of their situations and bring them together?"

She wiped a few tears from her eyes that I suddenly realized I hadn't noticed. "Ah, perhaps… But I think it is really about courage."

"Why do you think it's about courage?"

"Well, you see. There were consequences for the prince and his bride. Both of their families rejected them, and they had to find their way into the world with naught but each other."

My brow furrowed, the story almost turning unjust now. Why was that wrong? Why did it matter who the king ruled with as long as he ruled well? Why were they be punished for it? "But that's not fair!" I blurted out. "They didn't do anything wrong; they shouldn't have been ostracized for following their hearts!" I suddenly felt like such a child, blurting out things about justice and following your heart.

"You know, Gerda, following your heart doesn't always lead you to the right place. Many evil men have followed their hearts to the deaths of countless people." Grandmother was out of the chair and putting the book away again, a motion that had almost begun to feel ritualistic.

I thought about this, and my spirits seemed to sink. _Courage_, what was that? Was following your heart really wrong?

We climbed down the steps, and Grandmother pulled out a strawberry cream pie from the icebox that she had made earlier. The top was sprinkled in fresh strawberries cut up into bits, and the cake was a mixture of whipped vanilla and strawberry cream filling wits of cut up strawberries on it set on a thin layer of pound cake – complete with a graham cracker crust. She had made it, because I had told her how much I loved foods with strawberries in it.

I cut us both a piece and laid them on our plates, and then we ate. It was expectedly delicious, rich and fresh, as though you were eating ripe strawberries saturated in creamy milk. It was the sort of thing you wanted to eat with a friend, with someone to enjoy both the simplicity and complexity of life with. It made you think of being a child, being an adolescent, being an adult – and the timelessness of all the stages of your and everyone's being and the relaxing, refreshing sensation of fruit in cream.

"Grandmother, what do you think courage is?"

I worried that the question would seem too philosophical and too pretentious, but she didn't seem bothered by it. "I think that courage is when you are willing to pursue your convictions and what you think is right, no matter what stands in your way."

"But what if your convictions are wrong? Does that just make you determined?"

She thought about this. "I suppose courage is a bit subjective then, isn't it? Perhaps courage is merely conquering what you are afraid of, perhaps it's nothing grander than that."

The description of it seemed so ordinary, but in the story it had seemed wonderful and inspiring. "Perhaps," I said, trying to stumble my way along through a revelation. "perhaps, courage is transformed through what the person is striving to accomplish. Perhaps, the story of the cinders-girl is so sweet because they both overcome their obstacles for something that is beautiful and nurturing."

Grandmother looked at me fondly and smiled. "I wonder. Perhaps that is so, Gerda."

I thought of the prince and found myself blushing. "I would like that, Grandmother. I would like someone to be brave enough to sacrifice for me – someone to love me that much."

Grandmother's smile deepened, as she took our plates to wash them. "I think everyone would like that, Gerda. The question, though, is, will we sacrifice like that for another? Even if we don't believe we will receive anything in return? Love without conditions?"

It was such a profound thing – but such an impossible thing. To give up so much for someone who wouldn't even recognize it in the end – who could do that? "My, that sounds so terribly hard, Grandmother."

She paused at the comment then continued washing the dishes. Then, with a voice barely more than a whisper, said, "It is, Gerda. It is very hard."


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay folks… seventeen reviews for seven chapters, that's like barely over two reviews per chapter – not exactly encouraging. If you don't like this story could you please explain why and if you **_**do**_** like this story – and are not the marvelously faithful JanEyrEvanescence - could you **_**also**_** explain why? Cause I'm not going to update again until I at least have three reviews per chapter – so, like, twenty-one reviews. Cause otherwise it's not really worth it. And that's not asking for a ton: three reviews is kinda stingy as it is. But yeah, I'm not getting the seven reviews for the first chapter and one review for the fourth through sixth chapter deal. Obviously there must be something people don't like… and aren't expressing…**

The store eventually became profitable enough to allow us to continue renting the upper apartment, but it didn't allow much for any other extravagances besides lodging and some basic food needs. Veda, Penta, and Laurel continued running the shop smoothly the shop, and I continued stepping in when Penta and Laurel went of to their lessons. I didn't quite understand what they needed the lessons for, given they were so talented, and also the fact that the two seemed to be content with running the shop, but I didn't complain. By the time I had gotten the hang of where everything was in the bakery and was more adept at fetching things, the whole idea had somehow lost the magical appeal it had before. Somehow, everything felt so much more expected and routine. We still sold ale, though, and curiously enough, men did begin coming for a quick glass of it, while their wives got what they needed; and as such Laurel was pleasantly affirmed that her idea became a success. Veda eventually wised up to the fact that she needed more ambience and seating areas, so she and Penta added some simple wooden tables and chairs along with a bar for men, complete with homely barstools, and some high tables with high chairs. The walls still remained fairly simple, though there were now a few cheap paintings from a local artist depicting rustic scenes. And I suppose that was really the look they ended up accomplishing – rustic. It was faintly quaint, I supposed, and tasteful in its understatement, but ultimately it was exactly what I had come to expect: simple, understated, practical, necessary. It didn't burst and pop and beam and express – it was only what was needed to exist.

I never was a part of the baking process, no matter how I suggested and hinted. That was everyone else's job – mine was to sew dresses. I wondered what they did in the kitchens at night and the early morning, but I didn't dare sneak a peak. Such a thing would only demonstrate a violation of duty – and duty and business were the sacred deities of the family. So I continued to sew and continued to seek pleasure in what I was making. Surly there was also value in such an expression of creativity – the ability to make a girl feel physically beautiful and desirable, just as I had wanted to feel.

The fourth dress had been finished to acclaim, and now it was time for my fifth dress. We were already into fall, and I knew that at this rate, I would finish by winter. I felt the need the do something a little bit daring, even poetic. I wanted to make a gown entirely of white, something to evoke the snow. It would be unusual, even unfashionable, given that white was considered almost entirely a summer color. But I was tired of making things merely for the sake of being fashionable – I wanted to make something to gleam with its own intrinsic beauty. Perhaps someone would wear it sometime for a wedding dress.

I told Grandmother about it when I came over to her house next: "I'm going to create something different for the winter season. I have a feeling Veda is not going to like it, but I want to do something… something for me, I suppose. Something more lovely than fashionable, more poetic than social."

She gave me a funny look, and continued stirring the chocolate mixture in the saucepan over the stovetop.

"Do you think that sounds foolish? Do you think I ought to just make something typical? Am I being insensible" I felt as though I had suggested something that made me seem off in the head.

She laughed. "No, no, it isn't that, it's just…" She gave me another of her funny looks. "I don't know; I suppose I never really thought of you as someone who was going to stand up to Veda like that. Or, perhaps not stand up against, but at least…"

I frowned at this. "Do you mean to say that I'm weak?" It sounded so much harsher when I said it and rather defensive. But I suppose I knew as soon as I said it that it was true. In front of Grandmother I could be vocal and inquisitive and could disagree – because I knew that she accepted me. But in front of my family, I was just a pathetic little mouse, whimpering in the corner for a piece of cheese.

_Weak_ – it was a word I had heard and never quite understood, but now all at once I felt I did.

"I… I don't think I quite meant _that_, but rather… it seems that you do like to please others and that you're not inclined to go against them." Her voice quivered with a slight stammer as though her words were paper catching fire.

I sat down on the chair and unwrapped my red scarf, laying it down on my lap. It was something I had sewed for myself recently in my favorite color – the color of strawberries and blushing faces. It was strong and independent and eager and focused and… and _brave_, I felt. Brave enough to take a stand, to be bold and fierce.

And I wasn't brave. I was weak.

"I think if you cannot stand for what you believe in, if you live your life always trying to please other people… I feel like that is cowardly and weak. And I say this, and I know it, but still I yearn to be liked, Grandmother. I want people to like me and to notice me. I want to have friends my own age. But I don't seem to know what to say in front of them. I don't even know what to say to my own family. I don't know how to talk about the things we talk about together with other people. I'm just so afraid… and weak, I suppose."

Grandmother poured the mixture into cups and sat down across from me. She reached out and held my hand lovingly as she had done so many times in the past. "Well, Gerda, if that is what being weak means, then I am weak, too."

I looked up at her in surprise. "Really?"

She nodded. "I've always been afraid to confront the people I loved. And there'd be sometimes, wonderful times, when I'd muster the strength to take a stand, but mostly… Mostly I'd just let people tell me what to do, who to be. Even my husband…" Her eyes quivered with grief. I gripped her hands in turn. "Even my husband, I can't confront. I just smile and nod and…" she let go of my hands and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

I got up from the chair and went to her, putting my arm around her shoulder and nestling my head in the hollow of her neck.

She laughed. "I'm sorry, Gerda. I don't mean for you to have to deal with a silly, crying old lady."

I didn't respond at first and just stayed with her as she began to settle down. When at last her breathing became shallower, she turned to me, the tears now replaced with starlight as though reflected from a lake, and we hugged each other. "I love you, Gerda," she said. "Thank you for taking care of this silly, emotional woman."

I smiled. "I love you, too, Grandmother. Thank you for putting up with this silly, weak girl's probing and questioning. And thank you for all the wonderful meals."

We both laughed and broke apart.

"Here, I made something for us since the weather's getting cold," Grandmother said. We both got up and went to where she had laid the cups.

I stared at it, realizing I had thought she was making it for a cake or something and not to be served by itself. "What is it, Grandmother?"

"Try it and see," she said, urging me on.

I took the cup and carefully sipped it so as not to be scalded by the heat. The drink was fairly simple – I could tell that. Primarily it was chocolate and milk, but in an incredibly soothing, placating way. Apart from that were hints of cinnamon and even coffee beans. I felt my face beaming with ecstasy.

"You like it?" Her face was playing at another smile.

I nodded enthusiastically.

"It's called Hot Chocolate – or at least a spiced variety of it. It's a popular drink down south."

"It's delicious!" I replied.

"I like it, too. Especially when it's cold or when I'm sad." She poured some more in our cups when we had finished most of it. "Did you bring your sewing materials with you today?"

I nodded. "Are you in the mood for another story?"

She chuckled. "I am _always_ in the mood for another story."

We headed upstairs with our mugs, and Grandmother brought out a small wooden folding table to sit the mugs on when we weren't drinking.

"Ah, we've read so many already; I hardly know which one to read next!" Grandmother exclaimed, flipping through the pages.

"Perhaps there is a story about baking in there?" I teased. "Perhaps magical men made out of gingerbread or flying carriages made out of peppermint sticks."

"Well…" the old woman said slowly. "Well, there is one story in here…"

My facetious grin was immediately replaced with curiosity. "Oh, what's it about?"

"Well, it's… it's very sad." She looked uncomfortable.

"What… what happens in it?" I felt unexpectedly tense. Only moments ago, we had been so gay and bright, and now this story…

She flipped through the pages and stopped, staring intently. "Well, it's about an old woman with a house made out of candy…"

"Oh," I said. What could be so bad about that? "Well, you don't have to read it if you don't want to, Grandmother."

She nodded and looked at me. "Well, if I don't, I'm sure you'll wonder about it. I warn you, it's very sad, though."

I paused and thought it over. Sadness didn't have to be a bad thing; sometimes it could be poignant and meaningful. And curiosity was beginning to get the better of me. A woman in a house made of candy? What could be sad about that? "Well, I mean, that is to say, if you don't _mind_, Grandmother. I mean, it does sound interesting.

"No. No, I don't mind." Her voice seemed faint and far away, as though she were just waking up from a dream. She looked for glasses and put them on.

I pulled out my attempt at a balloon sleeve to work on while she spoke. I had managed to find a design that did not look childish and was making some progress on it. It wasn't good enough for my white dress, but I knew I wanted to practice it beforehand, so that I felt more confident for I made the sleeves for real.

"I forgot to ask you about your next dress, Gerda. What will this one look like? Are you making that sleeve for it?"

I looked up at her with a mischievous grin. "No, this sleeve won't be for the dress, and I shan't tell you what it's going to look like. It's a surprise."

Grandmother's eyes sparkled back at me, accepting the challenge with a smile of her own. "Well then, if you must be that way, I won't press you anymore about it." I giggled, and she propped the book open. "Are you ready, Gerda?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Once upon a time there was an old woman who lived in the forest all by herself. She was very clever and liked to bake sweets so much that she decided she would bake an entire house made out of sweets which, even if no one else could enjoy, she could at least be soothed by the fond memories of what the candies meant to her. At the same time, there were two children named Hansel and Gretl who lived with their father and stepmother in another cottage in the wood. Gretl was a very serious, but sweet and hardworking young girl who wanted to become an actress when she grew up, and her younger brother, Hansel, was very spritely and loved to watch his father carve wood into little toy statues."

Grandmother went on to tell about the children's evil stepmother who, tired of her husband constantly lavishing attention on them and rationing her food so that they could eat, took the children so deep into the forest so that they no longer knew where they were. There she abandoned them and fled back to her husband saying that they had run off and that she didn't know where they had gone. The children were very afraid and tried to make it back home, but the more they tried, the more lost they became. Eventually they came to the home of the old witch.

"When they saw the house made of gingerbread, they were instantly overcome with hunger. Never, never before had Gretl and Hansel seen such a beautiful house with peppermint sticks surrounding the windows, gumdrops for shingles, windows made of spun sugar, and gutters made of icing."

I licked my lips and finished off the rest of my hot chocolate as the story continued to unfold. The woman opened her front door and found the children eating her house and was overcome with concern for the children. She brought them inside and fed them a better dinner than her house. After they had eaten and were feeling better, they told the woman that they were lost. The woman, pitying the children, helped them each day search for their house, but to no avail. It wasn't until after the woman learned about the abuse the children had suffered at their stepmother's hands and how they had had very little food for their whole family did she piece together what had happened. The children, who came to love the old woman like kin, stayed with the woman a year, growing strong and healthy and better adept at cutting logs and making their own food. One day, however, the children's father managed to find the house from the smoke coming through the chimney. He thanked the old woman profusely, and took his children home. When the children told their father about how their stepmother led them into the woods, the stepmother convinced him that they had been bewitched by the woman who was in fact a witch who was plumping the children up to eat them, adding that her house had been an example of her powerful witchcraft. The husband was angry at her assumptions, but his wife managed to gather some of the nearby neighbors to convince them of her story.

"The stepmother was very cunning, you see, and she managed to persuade many of their neighbors and some of the people in town that the old woman was a threat and might soon target _their_ children and eat them. So many of the people formed into a mob intent on killing the woman. The stepmother was very pleased, for soon she would be able to silence the old crone so the she could not tell anyone that the woman had tried to kill her stepchildren."

I gasped, stealing myself for the horror of what was to follow. "_No_, she _didn't!_"

The mob eventually found the woman in the forest, who was very shocked to see them. They read the accusations against her, and she tried to defend herself, but they locked her in her house and lit it on fire. The mob waited until the house had completely melted to the ground and then looked for her remains.

"But no matter how hard they looked or where, no one could find the remains of the old woman." Grandmother closed her book.

I stared feeling overwhelmed by how open-ended it all was. "I don't understand. Was the old woman a witch? What happened to her?"

Grandmother smiled mischievously at me. "I don't know; was she or wasn't she?"

I followed her downstairs. "But what happened to the children? Did they continue to be abused? Did Gretl grow up to be an actress?"

She laughed. "I don't know, dear; the book doesn't say!"

"Did that story even have a _moral?_" I was getting increasingly more exasperated by the minute.

"Perhaps that evil is evil, and it will hurt others to disguise its true nature."

I felt absolutely vehement at the book, goading me in with such sympathetic characters and then absolutely destroying the end. "That was a _terrible_ story, Grandmother! That ought to be ripped right out of the book! What a waste for an ending like _that!_"

As we got downstairs, Grandmother reheated the hot chocolate and poured the rest of it into both cups. "You know, Gerda, good doesn't always win. Sometimes it's the people with best intentions who are crucified in the end – even when they haven't done anything to deserve it."

I frowned at this and stared into the dark brown pool of chocolate in my cup, the color of mahogany wood. "How do people live in a world like that then? How do people live being punished for doing something good?"

"Courage, Gerda. If you had the chance to do something truly good for someone, even though you knew you would be hurt in the end… If you could save two children from starving, even if you knew people would come after you… would you still do it? Would you break the law in order to help someone?"

I couldn't speak, afraid that my own words would betray my selfish and fearful heart.

"Courage," Grandmother repeated, her face glowing, "is the magic which continues to bring hope back into the world. We exist on people's courage to stand up against evil, people who stood up against evil no mater how devastating the consequences were. What a world we live in, Gerda. So full of hatred and judgment. If only we all could be courageous… to love others, to stand up for virtue, no matter what people say or do."

I finished my hot chocolate. "That woman must have been very brave."

"Perhaps," Grandmother murmured. "Perhaps she was brave or… perhaps she really had no idea that people would come after her. Perhaps she was just foolish."


	8. Chapter 8

**ARG, sorry this is late! I've been frenetically working on my French textbook this weekend (Yes, I happen to be writing a French Textbook; no, I don't speak French fluently; Yes, I'm nutty than a squirrel in Autumn). So, um, wow. Last week this story had seventeen reviews. This week it has thirty-seven. That's twenty reviews in one week! Unbelievable! II seriously had no idea people were even reading this except for JanEyrE! A few of you have mentioned you might think the story is starting to drag; that should start to change a bit with this chapter. Some of the tension that's been mounting finally starts to surface, and Gerda is definitely going to have to make some changes. But thank you all for your responses; for what I can tell, everyone seems to enjoy how baking is interwoven in the story and the descriptions of the sweets, is that right? That's definitely something I put in there for filler originally, but I feel now that the olfactory descriptions give it a little something unique. What does everyone else think?**

As the winter came, my dress began to continue to take life. The skirts, made of white chiffon silk, flowed and swam, and there were lacy petticoats that spilled out from underneath. The bodice, made from stiffer cloth, was a slight off-white color and cut off at the breasts. I was still working on the sleeves, which would be made of chiffon silk as well – they would be the most complicated of all. They would attach to the bodice at both the back and the front, forming a lacey collar that left a slight opening for both. They would also be balloon sleeves, forming a cuff at the wrists. On top of that, the skirts would be covered in white embroidery of snowflakes and swirly designs mimicking wind. I wasn't sure if the bodice or the sleeves would be embroidered as well.

Veda had finally noticed my new dress was unseasonably white, much to her displeasure. When she had found it hanging on the stand, she had remarked, "I hope that is merely the underskirts, Gerda dear. You know I've told you before that white will never do in the winter time, unless you're a polar bear and some other animal trying to disguise itself in the snow. The rest of the world wants to be seen."

I had nodded in agreement, not making eye contact, but secretly knowing I was not going to alter the dress nor throw it out.

I didn't know why I was so inspired to make such a dress. Veda was right, when the snow came the dress would completely camouflage the person wearing it, and there was no point in wearing a dress completely embroidered with wind swirls and snowflakes in the summertime. Perhaps it might indeed serve as a winter wedding dress or even a dress to a winter ball of some sort – provided of course that a cape were worn over it to protect the person from the cold. I thought of a lovely rich red cape with the same white snowflakes and swirls embroidered on it. It would certainly evoke the Christmas spirit.

I marveled at the idea, feeling especially enthused about my soon to be created masterpiece. It had been so long since I had been really excited about sewing and creating something beautiful – here it was, waiting to be birthed. How surprised Grandmother would be when I showed it to her!

I continued sewing, waiting for my family to return. Outside the last of the trees were turning and the red brick of the buildings where framed with leaves of ochre, scarlet, and vibrant orange. I thought of Grandmother's house and wondered whether the fire was burning in her living room – that odd room for guests that always seemed to be immediately bypassed for the dusty, but cozy attic. I wondered what I ought to get her for Christmas. Perhaps make a blanket or sheets? But I didn't know how to do that, yet. But surely it couldn't be very hard? I decided I'd find a book on it and learn.

I hadn't at all thought about what to get my family for Christmas. We hadn't really had enough money for Christmas the last couple of years, but now the bakery was becoming successful enough that we probably could afford to get each other things this year. But what did they even like? It was always business with all three of them – that or lessons for Laurel and Penta. Their conversations were about sales or improvements or difficult customers. They weren't about… _life_. Like boys they fancied or their friends or their aspirations. They didn't argue about books or philosophies or gowns. It was as though, apart from the store, they didn't even exist. And since that was really the only context I ever saw them, seeing as the store never really seemed to close for us even when it was closed, it was hard to imagine anything _personal_ giving them pleasure – a ribbon, a book for pleasure, a hat or scarf, a jewelry box.

I wondered if I really knew any of them at all – if they were just so removed from others and the rest of the world that all the secret, innermost layers of them were completely hidden to mankind, like a cave that was too deep and dark to enter. Perhaps I could learn how to make something like oven mittens or aprons, something they could find useful.

I was not expecting for Penta and Laurel to rush up the stairs that evening, bursting with more energy than they had ever known how to contain. Their hair was in wild disarray, and their cheeks were flushed deep pink. "We're going to college!" Laurel blurted out.

"We _might_ be going to college," Penta interjected coolly, though her face betrayed her excitement.

Laurel rolled her eyes. "_I_ am most definitely going to go to college! I _know_ I will!

"As long as you practice hard for the audition and don't botch it up," Penta snapped back.

I stared at the two of them, utterly bewildered. If was as though my sisters had their personalities completely changed. "What do you mean, you're going to college?"

"The president of a Performing Arts College was in town and apparently has discovered both Penta and Laurel's talent," Veda said, coming gracefully up the stairs. "He stopped by at the bakery today to request they both pay the college a visit next week for an audition for intermittence."

I felt as though my whole being had just been wiped clean as a slate. Go to college? Leave? "But Laurel," I said. "Neither of us know how to read or write. Mamma and Papa never bothered to hire us tutors for that sort of thing."

Laurel raised her eyebrow disapprovingly. "Firstly, Gerda, I do know how to read and write some, because some of the servants taught me, and secondly it's a _performing arts_ college; do you know what that means?"

"No," I answered bluntly.

"It means that it's a place to go to hone in your artistic talent; you don't need to know how to read and write very much as long as you are capable in whatever art form you're entering in for," Penta responded, her voice even more haughty than usual.

"So, Laurel, you're going to become a professional pianist?" I asked. I knew that Laurel liked to play the piano, but I didn't realize she was _that_ passionate about it.

"Yes, I am," replied Laurel. "And Penta is going to become a ballet dancer."

"I haven't decided if I want to study voice as well yet or not, Laurel," Penta said irritably.

I listened to them banter back and forth for a few minutes, still shocked. They were leaving. Off to college. They were going to get degrees and careers; they were going to go places and do things. There was going to be no Christmas. That was it, _ta da_, the end.

I wasn't exactly sad, but I wasn't happy either. I was just confused. What would this mean for the shop with them gone? Would I have to step in and take their place? Would I even have time to continue working on dresses? Would I ever have time to see Grandmother again?

I turned to Veda, who was preparing our usual modest dinner like always. "Stepmother, who is going to help with the shop now?"

"You," she said with her back turned, "and I'll suppose we'll have to hire another person or two to help out. It's a pity, I was hoping to use the money to improve a few things in the bakery, but this is the chance of a lifetime. What must be must be."

So… so that was it. Penta and Laurel would go away to college for an indefinite amount of time, and I… wouldn't. I would just be here helping with the shops and making dresses. That was fine, wasn't it? Nothing would be much different… no, _everything_ would be different. I would be rushed, hurried, have to take up new responsibilities. And my family, what was even going to happen to us? I barely even knew them. Now they were going to go away, and that would be the end, basically.

But Penta was right, that was only if they made the audition. And I would be happy for them, wouldn't I? I should. They had worked very hard for a long time, and it cumulated into this – college, careers, life! This was good for them; they were going places. They would become respected members of society with access to the world of the upper class – the world we once belonged to.

But I wasn't happy. And I wasn't entirely sure why.

I thought about it over the next couple of days. Would I be lonely without them around? Not very. Or really not very much more. I was always lonely, but being with them never did anything to ease that. Was I jealous? I didn't think so. I didn't particularly want to go to an arts college. I didn't even have a section I could apply for

The store was closed on the days Veda and the girls were out for the audition. I didn't go with them, namely because Veda insisted that she couldn't afford to carry my luggage on the carriage and find room for me with them at the inn. Also, I obviously needed more time to work on the dress, because it was still very much white. I hadn't commented on this or made much of a fuss, since it seemed completely unnecessary.

But I wanted to go with them. I wanted to know what the college looked like and how their auditions went and what the people at the school were like. And I wanted to know what it was like first hand – I didn't want to experience it through their memories. I wanted to get out of the store – I wanted to live.

I spent a lot of time with Grandmother while they were gone. She would read me more stories, bake more goods. We'd sing songs together; she'd make wild guesses about what the dress looked like, and I'd laugh and make cryptic answers.

When my family came home, it was announced that both Penta and Laurel had been received into the college. They immediately began packing their things. It was only a matter of days before they packed everything into the carriage, waved goodbye, and rode off. The whole period felt so surreal, though, as if it weren't really happening. I kept expecting to wake up and find that nothing had changed or for someone to tell me I had made some huge mistake. But lo and behold, the next morning I woke, and they were gone – their departure in the carriage had not been a dream. It was just Veda and I.

Veda managed to get two new workers before a significant time had passed. One of them was a middle-aged woman who was very punctual and very pleasant, but who did not ever treat me as anything more than a child who didn't understand the ways of the world. The other girl was my age, and she was very efficient, but as rigid as wood.

I managed to still have time to spend on the dress, despite the plethora of extra hours I now had to work. When at last I finished the dress, I showed it to Veda tentatively.

"Why are you showing me this?" Her voice was rigid and annoyed.

"I… I finished it," I stammered.

"Yes, I know you finished it. Why are you showing me this? You don't honestly expect for me to put it on display would you? No one would be hapless enough to buy such a tacky dress in front of everyone. I told you, Gerda, white is _not_ a winter color!" Her voice was angrier than I had heard in a long time.

"I… I thought maybe someone might want it for a winter wedding dress."

Veda stared at me and let out a harsh laugh. "You're not serious are you? No bride would be caught dead wearing a wedding dress she found in a _bakery_. The only kind of dresses people would buy from you are novelty dresses, for special occasions when people want to wear something mysterious and pretend that they've found something really rare and unique without actually finding something rare and unique."

Her words cut through me like a knife. So that was all my dresses had amounted to? No one had really been taking them seriously? They were just something unusual found in a bakery?

"Are you going to stand there holding your little white rag or are you going to start working on something actually profitable?!" Veda glared at me with a dark, venomous look, then turned and glided downstairs, her elegance ignited by the fires of rage.

I didn't say anything or even respond. I felt broken in half, as though the whole roof had just collapsed on me, and I had snapped like a twig. The many weeks of hope and excitement and want all crushed with a singled blow. You're not going to go to college. You're not going to make the kind of dresses you want to make. You're not going to go places and do things. You're not smart; you're not talented. You work at a bakery, and you sell dresses to girls who want to brag about wearing something novel.

Veda still did not bother to include me on the baking process, leaving that to herself and Bertha, the middle-aged woman. Bertha apparently was a well-experienced baker who had used her culinary skills primarily on her family, but had decided to take a chance when she saw the job position open. As usual, it was expected, even though it was disappointing. But Veda was so practical, so functional. Why teach me to bake? It didn't matter that I desperately wanted to do it – Bertha was experienced. She wouldn't need training. It was all so simple.


	9. Chapter 9

**Dear, dear. Twenty reviews in a week and then the next week down to three; that is disheartening. Well, at least there were three. But remember people, I'm not putting these chapters up for your benefit – I'm putting them up for **_**mine**_**. Selfish, I know. But I didn't write the first sixteen chapters for you, and I won't write the next sixteen chapters for you. If you're not going to tell me what you like/dislike, I'm not going to bother to write the author's notes at the beginning and submit the whole chapter to myself on FF. I'll just leave it on my computer for a later time or send it out privately to the few who are interested. Anyways, to the three of you who **_**did**_** review, I shall be very interested to see what you think of this chapter, as it may peak your interests for several reasons.**

I went to Grandmother's as soon as I could manage, taking the dress with me. I knew that Grandmother might agree with Veda that the dress hadn't been a good idea, but I still wanted her to see it – see what all the hard work had produced. Perhaps Grandmother would not think it so foolish after all.

She had baked muffins this time, and had put them in the oven upon sensing my arrival. I asked her why she thought I'd be coming over today, and she replied that she had just had a feeling. Nothing had started off badly at first.

"So Laurel and Penta are off at college, is that right?" She said. "Well, isn't that good for them? Putting all that hard work to use. Do you miss them?"

I looked at her blankly.

"You don't?" Grandmother looked rather taken a back.

"I um…" I replied stammering, "I mean, I _do_, I'm sure I do. It's just that…"

Grandmother's eyebrows furrowed. "It's just that what?"

"Oh… oh, I don't know. I guess nothing. I mean, I'm happy for their success and everything." Everything coming out of my mouth sounded inherently false.

She looked at me for a little bit, her face a cross between worried and confused. "Well, how's the bakery then?"

"It's fine, it's fine. We have two new employers there."

"Are they n-"

"Oh, _very_," I said, suddenly conscious that I had just interrupted her.

Grandmother Fælyn stared at me again for a bit. "Gerda, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I said, unable to meet her eyes.

She paused and walked over to the oven. "Did you get that dress sold?"

"Oh, no," I laughed awkwardly. "Veda wouldn't even put it on display."

Grandmother whirled around, gawking. "She _what?_"

I let out another awkward, forced laugh. "She said that it wasn't the right season for it, and that… that no one would buy a wedding dress from a bakery and that…" The tears were starting to come, no matter what I did to stop them. "That people only bought my dresses because they wanted to wear something they could say was really rare and different and-" My sentence ended in me dropping my head on the table and bawling my eyes out. The sobs came so fast and so powerfully, I felt like I barely had time to even breathe.

Grandmother was beside me in an instant, wrapping her arms around me.

"And I worked _so hard_ on it!" I cried. "And I thought it was so pretty and now it's worthless, and I'm just going to be this stupid, uneducated girl who never went to college and works at this stupid bakery making these _stupid, stupid, stupid_ dresses for these awful girls who just want to brag about rare finds!" My nose flooded in an instant, only to increase the hyperventilating. Grandmother pulled out a handkerchief, and I blew my nose to oblivion.

"Oh, Gerda, oh, poor sweet thing," she rocked back and forth. "Shhh, calm down love, you'll be alright."

I held onto her until at last my sobs simmered to frog-like croaks.

"There, that's better. Let's just keep calming down. Breathe deeply and relax."

I started breathing in and out, while she stroked my hair.

"There, are you feeling better now?"

I nodded, though my face and hair most certainly felt like a mess.

"Okay. Well, I'm going to get the muffins out of the oven before they burn, okay?"

I nodded again.

She released me and, slipping on a mitten, pulled the muffins out. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, as she sat down a steaming muffin on a plate in front of me. It seemed unmistakably fruity – particularly citrusy, and given the orange color, I figured the flavor couldn't be too far off.

"These are orange-cranberry muffins, dear. They're very hot right now," Grandmother warned.

I sniffled and breathed in the fumes clearing my sinuses even more. As usual the smell was wonderful. We waited a bit before sinking our teeth into it. The flavor was mild and refreshing – soft, but also comforting. It didn't explode in you face the way some foods did, and it didn't overwhelm you either. The smell was almost just as strong as the actual taste, but the crisp combination between sweet oranges and slightly tart dried cranberries alerted you to tangy, juicy effect the muffin possessed. It was like biting into summer sunshine, as though the pools of light seeping through the trees actually had a flavor of their own.

It was enough sunshine to burst into my heart again and help me smile.

Grandmother smiled back at me. "There, much better! You like it, I take it?"

I nodded enthusiastically again. "It tastes like sunshine!"

She chuckled. "'Tastes like sunshine:' I like that." She looked down and noticed the box I had left on the table for the first time. "Oh, my, what is that? Oh, is that your dress?! Oh, do let me see, Gerda!"

I looked at the package mournfully. "Well, if you really want to…"

"I do," she said, her eyes twinkling again. She opened the lid and pulled the dress out carefully, glancing over it. She stared at it for several minutes without saying a word.

I felt my heart thump. Did she hate it? Did she think it was disgusting? Was she trying to think of nice ways to mince her opinion?

"Gerda, I… I hardly know what to say." She continued staring at the dress.

I felt myself begin to choke back tears again. "Do you… do you think it's ugly?"

She continued staring at it and turned it around. "No… no, I don't think it's ugly at all." She said slowly.

There was silence. She stared at it longer, turning it here and there. Then suddenly, she turned to me. "Whom did you fit this for? Did you have someone's measurements in mind?"

"N-no…" I said, feeling nervous, but also curious as to her oddly drawn out reaction.

"Can _you_ wear it?" She asked.

"I mean, I _can_," I replied nervously.

"_Would_ you wear it?" She said with a smile.

"I mean… if you _want_." I felt so nervous. I wanted to ask her outright, but I figured she'd tell me eventually.

"There's the washroom by the entrance hallway; you could change in there, and I'll wait here for you."

"A-all right," I muttered, walking to the washroom and closing the door. I pulled off my slippers and then the rust red dress I was wearing, sitting it on the sink. My underclothes would prove to be a bit of a nuisance for the dress, specifically my brazier. I undid the clasp nervously, feeling incredibly awkward about being half naked in someone else's house. The rest of my underclothes did not interfere as I slipped on the dress. It felt light and elegant, but incredibly delicate – just like the snowflakes it emulated. I pulled up the sleeves, and realized I would have to have Grandmother help me with the back of it. Naturally I had been thorough enough to create a difficult enough back even _I _had to have help with.

I came out and pointed to the back portion. Grandmother obligingly made sure the laces were tight, then stared at me some more.

"So… do you like it or hate it?" I said finally, feeling my cheeks begin to grow hot.

Grandmother didn't reply, as I expected, and instead got a brush from the cupboard of the washroom, removed the headband from my hair and began brushing my hair back. I stood still, half enjoying, half wondering at the sudden pampering treatment. Then, after several minutes of brushing, she went upstairs to the attic and retrieved what looked like a beautiful jeweled headband of sorts – rather like a crown – but totally encased in what appeared to be diamonds, or at the very least, imitation diamonds. She smoothed my hair back and slipped the headband into my hair, then continued to look me up and down.

"So…" I said.

She took me into the washroom and we both looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The dress was stunning, that much was clear. It was so unbelievably carefully crafted and so expressive and poetic that it immediately fixated the viewer on it. Nobody had to say a word –it was obviously a success.

What was surprising was what it did to my features. My hair seemed so much silkier now and a deeper red, and my eyes looked strikingly jade. Never had I considered much about my features and coloring, but here – with the sparkling diamond tiara and the glittering, gauzy splendor of the gown, my face beamed with poignant color. Even my pale skin seemed to glow mysteriously against the white.

This was my masterpiece.

"My, it has been such a long, long time since I have seen a dress that beautiful, Gerda," Grandmother said at last. "And how well you wear it, too! Well, Veda certainly didn't do herself any favors by throwing a little tantrum; no, she didn't. I mean, look at the _detail!_" She marveled, and I grinned, my face turning beat red now that the tension had been replaced with a waterfall of compliments. She held up the skirts and gawked. "And not too gaudy either! Just gorgeous! It's almost too beautiful for anyone to wear, really, unless they were a member of the royal court, itself." She started laughing in amazement. "Gerda…! I mean, I can't believe it; are you _sure_ you made this?! My goodness!"

I was laughing and tears were starting to form in my eyes – but tears of joy this time. Nobody had ever made me feel like I actually was talented at anything. I had always just thought I was some nobody going nowhere. For the first time in my life, I felt like I actually had a future – had something really wonderful to contribute to the world.

Grandmother kept laughing and hugged me. "Oh, dear, it's so beautiful. Oh, you absolutely mustn't sell that at the store. No, you should wear that and walk right into the palace, dear. Oh, my, why you look as though you were the queen herself. Boy, would _she _be surprised. Speaking of the queen, I thought I heard…" She looked out the door towards the window. "Ah, come look, Gerda!"

I followed her outside to see the first winter snowflakes falling out the window. They were fluffy and delicate and fell gently onto the ground – the way all snowfalls ought to be.

"Ah, Grandmother, it's snowing!" I pointed out eagerly.

She grinned back at me.

I felt so puerile, but I knew it was all right. Here in Grandmother's house it was all right to make silly, obvious statements like that. It was all right to be a child.

"My, I had heard her ladyship would be coming today, but what a nice first snow she's brought us!" Grandmother said.

I turned to her, puzzled. "Her ladyship?"

Grandmother grinned back. "Why yes! Haven't you heard? Her ladyship, the Snow Queen."

I paused for a minute, suddenly recalling the name vaguely. "You did mention her once, Grandmother, but you never did tell me anything about her."

"Ah," Grandmother said, looking out the window again. "Yes, the Snow Queen. What a mysterious person. Some say she is the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. Others say that she is as old as time itself. It is said that she has the voice of a goddess and that she rides on steeds made of auroras. Every so often, when the Northern Lights descend, the Snow Queen visits our world in her white carriage. It is said that she is the queen of the wintertime, and she lives in a palace at the northernmost end of the world."

I stared out the window, trying to comprehend such a fantastic person. "Are there any fairytales about her, Grandmother?"

"No," the old woman said, then faltered for a minute. "Well, that is to say… there is one story."

"Oh?" I replied, looking at her. She looked almost bothered, as though she had not wanted to share a story today. "What is it? Is it another one that ends badly?"

Grandmother shook her head. "No, no, it had a fine ending."

"Oh," I repeated. "Would you read it to me?"

She continued to watch the snowflakes fall, her eyes distant as though she were trying to remember something from a long time ago. "Yes, I can read it to you." Her voice sounded far off, as though she wasn't really talking to me at all, but rather to someone outside – perhaps the Snow Queen herself.

I changed out of the dress and back into my original clothes, before climbing up the stairs to meet Grandmother Fælyn. She sat in her chair, looking through the pages, as though she had forgotten the story. She was almost so absorbed that she didn't notice me come in. I sat down next to her, and she jerked her attention towards me, spectacles already on face. "Ah, yes, there you are."

"I'm ready when you are, Grandmother," I said.

She nodded and looked back at the book. "Ah, yes. It's been a while since I've read this story, really. You'll forgive me if it sounds a little bit more disoriented, but I'm sure it won't be too confusing."

"That's all right, Grandmother." I was more confused by her comment; what could be disorienting about simply reading from the book?

"Well, let's see. Once upon a time there lived a queen high, high up in the northernmost part of the whole wide world. She a very beautiful woman and ruled over the wintertime. Her palace was made entirely of ice, and there she lived with her servants made of snow, ruling eternally alone. She was very cold and stern, leaving her post only to bring winter to the lands. Every now and then she even graced the world by riding down in her white carriage, clouded in the aurora, singing her beautiful sad music in a voice as clear as crystal. It was never her business to interfere with the lives of humans, and she made certain to steer clear of them and make sure that she was never seen. However, one day, she spotted a handsome young prince from her pool of glass."

The prince, Grandmother explained, was the prince of a Northern Kingdom, and though he was very handsome indeed, he was also very vain and selfish. He was betrothed to marry an ugly princess from the southern lands, and he was desperate to get out of the marriage. The queen, who had always been very curious about humans and wanting to see what they were like, decided to involve herself in the young prince's life. One day, during a blizzard, she appeared to him on the balcony. Frightened, but astonished by the woman's beauty, the prince let her in.

"I have watched you for a while now, my prince, from the pool of truth in my castle in the north, and I believe that I may have a solution to your dilemma." Grandmother's voice sounded oddly musical, here – musical and clear like a glass struck with a metal spoon during a dinner toast.

I closed my eyes as usual, soaking it the wonder and excitement of the story, visualizing the gorgeous woman in white and the man, gaping at her presence and words. The queen gave the prince an ultimatum. She would either leave him there to be forced into a loveless marriage, or she would give him a chance to find someone he thought himself more compatible with and win her love. If he failed, however, he would be forced to become her servant.

"Why did she make that part of the condition?" I asked Grandmother.

The old woman paused momentarily. "Well, perhaps she wanted to impart in the young man a sense of seriousness about marriage. He was very used to playing with women and their hearts, and the Queen wanted to protect the girl that he chose so that he could not abandon her for another one if he merely got bored. He could have only one pick of his own or else serve the queen for penance for his ways and to preserve the mystery of her being."

I nodded and continued listening to the story. The prince thought it over and decided to take a chance, being a bit brasher than most. So the Snow Queen spirited him away with her winds and brought him out into the snow covered lands. She offered him a white coat of protection from the cold, which he took, only to realize that the coat was enchanted and had transformed him into one of the white Northern bears. The Queen explained to him that he would be allowed to remove the coat only in the darkest of night as he lay next to his new bride in their wedding bed, and even then he was not to be seen, nor to lay a hand on the girl, or else she would claim him.

"The bear-prince cried aloud angrily, but the Queen told him that he had been warned that it would be a test. If he could win the love and trust of the girl and love and trust her in return in a years time, without breaking the laws she had laid down, he would indeed be released from the curse to not only a significantly better marriage situation, but he would also be rewarded with riches and prosperity in his rule."

I wondered at this, how the Snow Queen could ever have promised prosperity in his rule and why she would have rewarded him with riches, why she would have taken the time to do any of it at all. It was as though she thought of herself as some sort of divine judge, worthy of giving or taking from even a prince.

The girl that the bear-prince selected for his bride was not a wealthy girl, and she lived in a house with several brothers and sisters as well as her family. The prince had wandered around and found the girl to be very interesting, especially coming from such a large family. The Snow Queen had granted him a magical palace built into a mountain far to the north of where he was at, and that was where he was to take the girl for a year. One day, he finally entered the girl's home, much to the family's horror. He had seized an opportunity when the family's finances were particularly low and offered to give the family untold wealth in exchange for the girl's hand in marriage. The girl's mother, who was not at all a good woman, agreed on the arrangement and let the bear take the girl far away to his castle in the mountain. The girl was given every luxury and was doted up by invisible spirits, but still she did not love the prince. As time went by, the two argued and fussed, and the prince, much to his surprise, found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with the girl. And every night of that year, he removed his coat and climbed into the bed with the girl at the darkest of night, making sure never to break the laws laid down for him.

The girl eventually became fonder and fonder of him, especially now that he was more taken with her personal life and less given to rages. However, she still dearly missed her family, despite the fact that her mother had given her away. She pleaded with the bear-prince to allow her to visit them once again to assure them that she was safe and that the promise would be upheld. He acquiesced, but warned her that it would extend her stay in the castle. He also warned her not to speak to her mother alone, for he had had a vision of the mother bringing disaster to them both. She agreed and with that, left. Her family was very glad to see her, but her mother at last did corner her in the end, telling her that the man she slept next to might really be a troll waiting to devour her when the year was up. She convinced her daughter to carry a wax candle with her when the man came in the room and to strike the candle and then look upon his face, to ascertain that he was not a demon.

When the girl returned back to the palace, the bear-prince questioned her about what had happened while she was away and if she had talked to her mother. She lied, not knowing what to do, and said that everything had been fine, and that she had not talked to her mother. But secretly, she had indeed brought a wax candle with her and a match. That night, when the man climbed into bed with her, she struck the candle with the match and gazed upon his face, astonished to see that he was indeed a handsome man and not a troll. However, a bit of the wax dripped on his shirt, and he awoke with horror, realizing what she had done. The girl tried to apologize, but it was too late, and in a matter of minutes he was swept away from the Snow Queen, telling her that he would be taken to a land farther east than the sun and farther west than the moon. And with him, the castle vanished as well.

The girl was devastated and prayed to the spirit of the Snow Queen to help her find the prince and earn his forgiveness. The Snow Queen took mercy on her and sent her servants, the four winds, to guide the girl along her journey. But she would not make the journey simple for the girl, testing her courage, her love, and her resolve of heart. Through the many trials and through a long journey, the girl finally arrived at the gates of the Snow Queen's palace. She was lead in by guards made of ice to make her appeal to the queen. She fell upon her knees and begged the queen to release the man or at the very least, to punish her folly and not his by exchanging places with him as the queen's servant. The prince was devastated and insisted that such a thing should not come to pass, as he was the one foolish enough to accept the challenge.

"The Snow Queen, however, realized the love the both of them had for each other and absolved the punishment, and released the both of them to the prince's kingdom." She closed the book, and got up to put in on the bookshelf.

My head swam with the usual questions: what happened to the Snow Queen? What happened to the prince? Did his parents accept his choice of bride? What of his coat, even?

We climbed down the stairs as per usual and back into the kitchen. The window revealed the world sprinkled in white like sugar on pound cake. Soon enough I would return to my own barren world of people pleasing and Veda's orders and the emotional drain of the customers.

I glanced at Grandmother, who staring out the window as well. I wondered if we were both thinking the same thing. "I don't want to go back."

She smiled sadly at me and then turned back out to stare into the wintry wilderness, lost in thought. Then she turned back to me: "You're going to be working in the bakery a lot more now, aren't you?"

I nodded solemnly.

Her mouth began to itch with a grin. "You know, Gerda, I'm really not all that enamored with your stepmother right now, with all her uppity tyranny."

I began to grin, too, though I had no idea what was coming.

"That bakery is so unmemorable. The ambience isn't that pleasant, and the baked goods certainly aren't much to sing about."

"No argument there," I agreed.

"What you need to do, Gerda dear, is to beat them at their own game. They want you to work in a bakery? Oh, _you'll_ work in a bakery, mmm hmmm." I had never heard her sound so mischievous, even sarcastic. It was as though there was a totally different side of her I had never seen before.

"What are you suggesting?" I asked, no longer smiling, just genuinely confused.

"_I_ think, Gerda dear, that you should learn how to bake, and that I should teach you. What do you think of _that_?"

The grin returned to my face. "I don't understand how that's going to put them in their place, but I'm all for it."

She nodded slowly with gravity, her eyes sparkling with the light of a scheme. "Next time you come here… baking lessons."

And that is how I learned how to bake.


	10. Chapter 10

**I thought I uploaded this last week? Apparently not... Anyway... My personal favorite part of this chapter is the first half, with Veda and Gerda's conversation. Otherwise, this chapter marks a change in the dynamic of the story, and I have a feeling you'll see how. Tell me what you think! And sorry about the hiatus (to the people who **_**review**_**, hint, hint at least). Can't say I have much good reason for it, especially since I'd already written Chapter Ten, but alas and oh well.**

I went home that day more excited than I had been in a long, long time. It wasn't even necessarily the thought that I was finally going to learn how to bake for myself, but also the sweet taste of revenge – or at least even independence from the domineering, hyper-controlled force that was Veda. I was so tired of being a pawn in her game. Now things were going to be different. Now, _I _was going to be the baker.

Back at the apartment, Veda unsurprisingly failed to recall that there had been any prior tension between us. Now it was just sunshine and complacency – or so she thought.

I couldn't help giggling to myself. _I_ had a secret; I was _not_ just an extension of Veda's body. _I_ was going to do something outside of her control. And there was nothing she could do about it.

I almost felt drunk with the sense of control, no matter how delusional it actually was. The point was that I was finally making some sort of steps towards freedom. I was just a little bit less cowardly and a little bit braver.

I still didn't know what to make of my dressmaking. I obviously had a talent – or at least that was what Grandmother had led me to believe. And people had bought my dresses. It wasn't that I was going to give up on it, but rather I felt the time had come to put it aside momentarily. I needed to be a person; I needed to be Gerda who did not just fill in the cracks between tiles like grout. I wanted to bake. I was born to experience life through different venues and different expressions. I had spent so much time trying to shove my mother's sneers down her throat and prove my importance that I had forgotten to _be_ important. I had forgotten how to be an actual person.

Still, I knew I could not give up my dressmaking – if anything to placate Veda while I sharpened the dagger of my soon-to-be-acquired skills. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going to go with my next one after all. It was the beginning of winter now, and I doubted I could get another one done by Christmas. I had almost considered doing one in light blue and white, another take on the snowflake theme – just to irritate Veda, but I knew that'd be a mistake. But what was one supposed to come up with for winter? Darker colors so as not to stand out?

I decide on a rich red design, one I was sure I'd like very much. It would be made out of velvet and perhaps even white fur if I could afford it. The bodice would be designed like a waistcoat with little silver buttons going up it on the side, and there would be a thin layer of fur all around the bottom of it. The sleeves would be sewn onto it, but would look as though they were a posterior layer. They would be balloon shaped, again, though a little more distinctly with fur cuffs. The high collar would be lined with fur, too, and that section would also be connected to the bodice so as to look posterior. The skirts would be detached from the bodice, with little stars and snowflake designs embroidered here and there to give it a glimmering sort of look.

Veda might still not like the white, but it would certainly be enough to get away with.

It seemed so odd that she had entered my consciousness at all. She had always been so stiff and unemotionally charged that she merely faded into the background like a schedule. It was almost as though she didn't exist, like she was some giant manual. I couldn't help wondering who – or what – she had been as a child. I could have imagined her memorizing textbooks and reciting all the answers back to her teacher, while the other students looked at her with loathing and disgust.

Yet, the woman was so elegant and sophisticated. She wore gowns as if she created them – as if they were created for her. She talked to people with impeccable poise and regality. Had she been royal? Perhaps even an aristocrat?

I decided to ask her about it the next time we were alone together after the store closed. We were both busy working – I on the dress, she on the finances – when I decided to take the chance. "Um… Stepmother?"

"Yes, Gerda," she replied almost as if to affirm the fact that I spoke and not to ask a question.

"W-what were you like when you were y-younger?" I said, feeling a rush of embarrassment as though I were trying to get away with completing a dare.

"Excuse me?" Veda said, looking up at me as though she had not heard.

"Um… that is to say… I was, um, wondering what you were like… when you were younger?" Now I felt as though I had been caught stealing something or doing something else explicitly against the law.

She looked at me a moment, her features almost frowning, but not quite, and continued back to her work. "I was married. Very, very married."

"I meant when you were my age," I said, just to make sure she understood.

"So did I," Veda replied.

I found myself startled. Veda was very, very married at _my_ age? That seemed… so unlike her.

"What was you husband like, Stepmother?" I ventured again, obviously too idiotic to be warded off by Veda's earlier signs of dissatisfaction.

"Tall," she replied. "And very rich."

That was it? That was all she had to say? "Is that all?" I blurted out.

She looked up to me, clearly frowning this time. "He was in the military. He was passably handsome. There was a scar on his back. What is it that you're looking for? Bertram is dead, Gerda, totally and completely dead. That's it; that's all there is to it. The past is over. Why are you bringing this up at this hour?"

I looked down at my sewing. "I… I was just wondering about you, Stepmother. I feel as though I know so little about you."

"You don't need to know anything about me. All you need to know is that I am your guardian, and I am to rear you as I see fit until you are self-sufficient to make it out into the world on your own."

I nodded, still not looking at her.

"Is that quite all, Gerda?" The voice was sharp and brittle, and I was not accustomed to the edge in her otherwise unruffled and perfunctory demeanor.

"Yes, Stepmother," was all I said in reply.

So, that was it. She was my guardian until I could sustain myself, and then she was nothing, nobody. Our relationship was just going to end. It seemed so obvious, so expected, that it almost didn't hurt. But it did, and I wasn't sure why.

By the time I went to visit Grandmother for my first cooking lesson, I was no longer all that interested in making Veda eat her prior words to me. She was, indeed, just my guardian, as she had so aptly stated. I was more eager to continue pursuing cooking for my own personal gain – to do something totally and completely for me to grow as a person and not with anyone in mind. Veda might never even acknowledge the fact that I was baking, but I would do it anyway: I didn't need anyone else in the equation.

When I came in, I was greeted to a surprising feeling of vacancy. For the first time ever, there was absolutely nothing in the oven – nothing until I myself baked it. Instead of food, there were three bowls, a whisk, the beater, and three cookie sheets. Various ingredients and measuring cups were also out on the table as well. Grandmother was very excited for the lesson when I came in and eagerly helped me out of my coat. Before long, we were both standing in front of the table.

"What are we making today?" I asked.

"I'm going to teach you something really simple. It's recipe I found for a cookie I like to call Snicker Cookies."

I nodded at her as she beamed.

"Oh!" She exclaimed suddenly. "I almost forgot! We always must wash our hands before cooking."

I followed her to the basin of water where we washed our hands in soap and dried them.

"There, much better. Now, let me see, what to do first? Ah, first let's begin heating the oven."

She opened the oven and crouch by it to make sure the fire was going then quickly stood up. "Now take one of those bowls."

I took one in my hands.

"And let's see… put about two cups of flour in, two teaspoons of cream of tartar, one teaspoon of baking soda, and a fourth of a cup of salt."

I found a bag of the flour and the measuring cup for one cup and scooped twice into the bowl. I found the teaspoon on a chain and measured the cream of tartar and baking soda before putting it in, before finding a fourth of a teaspoon cup on the ringlet and dumping in the salt.

"Very good," Grandmother said. "I noticed that you were extra careful about trying to measure the ingredients just so. That's very good, but the next time, perhaps try using a knife to shave off the excess ingredients. I find that works especially well with the flour.

I nodded.

"Now take the whisk and sift the ingredients together." She picked out the whisk and handed it to me. "Sifting means that you just stir the ingredients around a bit softly. Don't stir too hard or everything will fly out of the bowl. Just stir softly, smoothly, blending it together… there, that's good. Try to move just your wrist and keep your arm stiff… there, that's it, good."

I scraped the ingredients around the edge of the bowl that I had accidentally flung out a bit into the center.

"Now," Grandmother began again, "you're going to need two sticks of the butter and one and a half cups of the sugar in the _other_ mixing bowl."

I picked up the mixing bowl and added two of the softened butter sticks on the counter with a scoop and half of the sugar, which I scraped with the knife this time.

"The next thing you're going to do is you're going to beat them very fast. This part is a little tricky." She picked up the beater and showed it to me. "What you're going to do with this is twirl this handle around." She did so. "You, see? It makes the beaters move into each other when you do. But you're going to have to do it really fast and keep it suspended in the mixture. Watch." She positioned her hand on the beater and then began furiously spinning the handle around, causing the beaters to twirl and twirl with maddening speed, blending the sugar and butter into a much smoother mixture. She stopped after a bit and handed it to me: "Your turn."

I positioned my hands on the beater and began twirling the handle. When I realized it was hardly making a dent, I twirled harder and fast, trying to keep it up. The beater slipped on me, and I hit the bowl, making an awful grating sound. I stopped immediately.

"It's okay, it's okay," Grandmother said comfortingly. "The bowl's fine; keep doing it. You were getting the hang of it."

I twirled the beater again harder and harder until at last the mixture looked smooth.

"Very good, Gerda! Now, you're going to need to crack two eggs and put them in the mixture."

I found the eggs and stared at them bewildered. How did you not make a mess doing this?

Grandmother went to her kitchen cabinets and pulled out another small bowl. "I forgot that you've not had much experience cracking eggs. I think it's always good to crack eggs into a separate bowl, in case the shell breaks off. I'm experienced enough myself not to need it, but it's necessary for most beginners and people who can be clumsy." She took one of the eggs from me. "Now, what you're going to do is to hit the egg shell on the rim of this bowl. Do it only hard enough so that the shell only just cracks or else it will splinter and fall apart everywhere and then bye, bye yolk." She demonstrated cracking the eggshell on the rim, then carefully splitting the shell with her fingers and letting the yolk fall into the bowl.

I took the end and tried to imitate her, but a piece of the shell fell in when I tried to dump the yolk in the bowl. Grandmother found a spoon and fished it out, then discarded it with the rest of the shell. "See, that's why I got you that bowl. Much easier to deal with then trying to fish the shell out of the mixture. Here, let's wash our hands again to clean off the raw egg." We washed our hands again, then returned to the table where I dumped the mixture into the larger bowl and beat it again.

"Now, let's put the dry ingredients in with the wet ingredients. You're going to stir them around until they're well blended." She handed me a wooden spoon to scoop out the dry mixture and stir it. I did so, trying carefully to get everything blended together.

"The next thing you do after that is to measure out four teaspoons of the ground cinnamon and a fourth of a cup more of the sugar and put it into the small bowl there… the cinnamon's in that small little jar, there. Good."

I measured these and dumped them in.

"Now you need to whisk the ingredients together."

I did so.

Grandmother clapped her hands and rubbed them together eagerly. "Now, last step before putting them into the oven. We're going to pull off pieces of the dough and roll them in our hands into one inch balls, roll them in the mixture, and then just sit them on the wax paper on the cookie sheet." She pulled some dough off, rolled it into a ball and showed it to me, then rolled it in the mixture before putting it on a paper. I imitated her, and she nodded her head in acceptance.

"Yes, that's it. Now just roll it in the mixture and stick it on the paper, and then start a new one."

We both continued rolling the balls of dough in our hands and in the mixture until an entire cookie sheet was filled. "Gerda, I'm going to let you put the cookie sheet in the oven. Here, put on these mittens and then open the oven door and _carefully_ slip the cookie sheet in."

I nervously obeyed and, after I opened the oven door, quickly slipped the cookie sheet into the oven and closed the door with a bit of a jolt.

Grandmother laughed. "I've always hated dealing with those ovens. Such a hassle. Now, let's continue rolling the balls. The cookies take about ten minutes to bake, so by the time we've put the second batch in and have finished the third, the first should be ready to cool." We continued the process, and after two more rounds, took the first batch carefully out of the oven and replaced it with the third.

I breathed in the smell. It was wonderfully sweet, light, and cinnamon-y, nothing shockingly uncommon, but still appealing in its simplicity.

"Gerda, would you like some tea with the cookies?"

"Yes, please, Grandmother!" Grandmother Fælyn boiled some water in a pot then brewed it with the teabags in the teapot. She pulled out two cups and a glass container of milk from the icebox to add to the tea. By the time this was done, the second batch was ready for me to pull out of the oven. We put away the ingredients and cleaned up the utensils as we waited for the first batch to harder, and when it did, we pulled the last batch out of the oven, put some of the first batch's cookies on our plates, and sat together at the table.

"So, you have officially baked cookies, Gerda," the old woman said smiling. We both bit into them at the same time and let out a murmur of assent. Yummy. They tasted especially good when moistened by the tea. "I'd call this a success," she said. "How about you?"

"Yes, I agree," I grinned. "Thank you for teaching me."

"It was my pleasure. Was it pretty easy?"

I thought for a minute. "It was, but I think it was a bit unnerving still as well, because I really didn't know what I was doing at first, and I didn't know where the process was leading. But the individual steps weren't very complicated or hard to do."

She nodded. "Yes, there are a lot more recipes that have a lot more complexity. For instance, the chocolate bread roll I like to make requires you to bake a thin loaf of bread, roll it up in a towel, let it cool, unroll it, smear the cream layer on it, and then roll it all up again – making sure that you don't break the bread."

I grimaced. "I'm not sure I would like that at all."

She shrugged. "Well, they're not so bad. It's always fun to do something a bit unique and challenging. Just not at first."

I nodded, wondering what sorts of things we would accomplish next.

"I think for next time we should make another fairly simple cookie, but perhaps with slightly more exotic flavors. Oo, oh, I have a good recipe for orange-ginger wafers; would you be up for those?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, good, I can't wait!" Grandmother beamed.


End file.
